


One Summer Night

by Brighid45



Series: Treatment [7]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2327708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seventh story in the ongoing Treatment series. House has left Princeton and PPTH-what's in store? OC romance, angst, healing, humor, and the occasional session of naked stargazing. AU to S6/S7 canon storyline. Now revised and updated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it’s done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

_August 3rd_

"You know, you can see the northern lights better if you're naked."

Roz turned her head to look at Greg. "And where exactly did you learn this highly scientific fact?"  

He shrugged. "Everybody knows it."

"Well, obviously not everyone," Roz said. "Can you explain how this principle works exactly?"

Greg put an arm behind his head and stared up at the sky. "Fairly simple. Remove garments, look up. Ooohh,  ahhh,  pretty curtains of fiery color, but not as compellingly magnificent as a naked woman lying next to you. QED."

"No, it's not self-evident," Roz said. "I want details."

He turned his head to look at her. "Spill."

"Well . . ." She paused. "Where do you start? Top? Bottom? Is there a prescribed order? And how come there's only a naked woman in your little example? I'm not interested in her. A naked guy though, now you're talking."

"Point taken. Hmm . . . don't think there's rules about how you do it," Greg said. "You just peel till you hit skin." Even in the semi-dark she could see his innocent expression. "Please tell me you’re interested."

Roz chuckled. "We'd need a boatload of DEET to survive and we only have a little bitty bottle of spray with us."

"Chickenshit." Greg returned his gaze to the sky.

Roz moved a little closer. "It doesn't have to be all or nothing," she said, and took his hand in hers, enjoying the feel of his long, strong fingers as they curled around her palm. "How about we start with flipflops?"

" _Duh_. Footwear doesn't count."

"That makes no sense. If we ever did strip, we'd look pretty silly lying here with just our shoes on," Roz said.

"'If'? You're breaking my heart. Anyway, no one's going to see us but us," Greg said. Roz pointed a finger at the stars.

"They see everything," she said in a solemn voice, and giggled at his groan. When she kissed him his theatrics changed into something else, a heat she enjoyed as much as the feel of his mouth. His tongue stroked hers with an almost shy tenderness. His arm came down from behind his head; he slid his free hand under her tank top, cupped her breast. The kiss ended with both of them a little breathless, their argument forgotten for the moment.

"Mmm . . ." Roz sighed as he rubbed his callused thumb over her nipple, making it harden.

"Small but mighty," he murmured, and chuckled when she gave him a light smack and gently removed his hand, her fingers twined with his.

"Better hope I don't say that about a part of you some day, buster. So what do you plan to do now that you've been cut loose from Princeton?"

"At the moment I’m looking for a car." Greg pulled her a little closer. She dared to snuggle in just a bit; too much and he'd tense up, push her away, she knew that now.

"You've got a sweet ride already," she said.

“Well yeah, but I’m hoping for at least one more.” He gave a low chuckle in her ear. His breath stirred her hair. Roz closed her eyes for a moment, enjoyed his closeness.

 “I’ll just bet you are,” she said, and softened her words with a teasing note. She glanced upwards and gasped as a line of wavering green descended slowly across the width of the sky. " _Whoa_."

"Made by solar plasma streams exciting oxygen and nitrogen atoms along the earth's magnetic field lines, which creates photons of light," Greg said. Under the amusement she caught a note of what sounded like admiration. "The bike's not practical in winter, especially around here."

"So you're in the market for wheels." She rested her head against his chest and watched the green curtain form far above them. "What were you driving before?"

"Dynasty."

She bit back laughter. "No, really."

" _Yes_ , really." He growled when she did laugh this time. "Hey, it got me where I wanted to go."

"So will four wheels, a plank and a rope—about the same difference, only without that piece of shit Ultradrive transmission." She rummaged in her pocket and drew out her cell phone, punched in a number.

"What the hell are you doing?" Greg turned his head to glare at her.

"I got a source," she said, just as someone on the other end said

"This better be good."

"Hey Jay," Roz said. "Take the shot, I can wait." She heard him put down the phone, then the sharp click of the business end of a pool cue meeting a ball, with accompanying groans and jeers.

"Okay," Jay said when he returned. He sounded a little less preoccupied. "What?"

"You know that project you started last year?" She glanced at Greg, who still watched her. "The one in the back bay?"

"Yeah." Jay's voice sharpened. "Got a buyer?"

"Got an interest." She ignored Greg's silent, exaggerated NO. "When can we stop by to take a look?"

"Tomorrow after work."

"Cool. We get a decent test drive," Roz said. "Not just once around the block."

"You get a half hour if you promise not to haggle. I got bills to pay."

Roz snorted. "Hah. Cry me a river. You just won two hundred easy. Anyway genius, how about this for an idea: drink less beer, save money." She smiled at Greg’s low chuckle.

"Hey, is that a guy I hear? You're actually on a real date?" Jay sounded slightly pleased. "About time."

"Shut up. See you tomorrow." Roz ended the call and put her phone away.

"So this Jay is an ex or something." Greg’s tone was impassive. Roz was careful to hide her delight at this rare display of possible jealousy.

"A cousin. He's the only relative on my dad's side who ever bothered with me besides Poppi. He taught me how to stand up for myself, how to drive, how to go for what I want no matter what other people think. He's more of a big brother than anything else. That's pretty much how he feels too." She shivered a little; the evening was cool and even cuddled next to Greg she was still a bit chilled.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to buy a beater from some alcoholic pool player." Greg said. "No way."

"I would like you to take a look at a restoration project tomorrow afternoon," Roz said. "Even if you decide not to go, I'll be there just to see how things turned out. Jay's been working on this for a long time. He knows cars. I trust him—as a mechanic," she said, and smiled when Greg sighed.

"So he’s got some souped-up rice burner in a back garage. Great."

"You'll see." She put her head to his chest once more, felt the steady bump of his heartbeat under her cheek.

"You should go home." He belied his statement when his hold on her hand tightened. She breathed in his scent, warm and male.

"I'm fine right here," she said softly, and felt him relax just a little.

"You have to work tomorrow." The rough words held real concern, she recognized it now.

"I'll be all right." She didn't care how tired she was in the morning; it was worth it to spend time with him under the northern lights as they shimmered and undulated far above. She shivered again before she could stop herself.

"Told you to wear a flannel."

"So you get to be right as usual," she shot back. He let go of her hand, then moved his arm around her to bring her closer.

"Wimp," he said. She felt his palm slide over her hip in a possessive gesture and smiled in the dark.

"Better be nice to me or you won't have a chance at that car," she said.

"So what? There's plenty of other choices out there," Greg said. "Empty threat."

Roz's smile widened. "It isn’t."

Shortly before they went in for the night, she asked "Do you think you're going to stay with Sarah and Gene? For a while longer, I mean."

Greg was silent for a time. "I don't have much of a choice."

Roz didn't speak. She knew he would see any further questions as a breach of privacy. _Let him tell you or not,_ she thought. She felt his chest move as he took a slow, deep breath. His hand tensed for a moment, then relaxed.

"Sarah's my analyst. We met in a mental institution. I was a patient at the time. She wasn't. A patient, I mean. She was on the other side of the desk."

She considered his reply, and knew it was hard for him to admit to what he saw as weakness. "How long?" She kept her tone soft, neutral; she didn’t want to spook him.

"Over a year now." He began to draw away. Roz followed his movement and stayed close.

"Sarah invited you to stay here while you're working with her?"

"She didn't really have any other options." He sounded as if he choked the words out by main force. "I . . . got her fired from the hospital."

"I see." It was the wrong thing to say, she knew it even as the words left her mouth; she also knew any response, even silence, would have had the same effect.

"You don't see a damn thing." He sat up and struggled to his feet. His quiet hiss of pain when he stood on his bad leg made her wince. She said nothing, only collected the blanket and pillows they'd brought out with them and followed him into the house. He didn't stop in the kitchen or living room, however; he continued on into his room and closed the door firmly behind him. Roz paused. The door didn't re-open; she stood in the sudden silence, shut out and uncertain. After a while she folded the blanket, set it on the couch with the pillows, picked up her keys and left. She tried not to feel as hurt and apprehensive as she really was.

 _Maybe I should have stayed,_ she thought later as she lay in bed, Hellboy curled in a warm furry lump behind her knees. _Maybe I should have pushed things a little harder . . . but that just didn't feel right. He'll tell me or he won't, in his own time._ She checked the clock again and sighed a little. _Five a.m.'s gonna get here fast if I don't try for some sleep._

Still, it was an hour before her alarm went off that she finally drifted into a troubled doze.

_August 4th_

He hears her truck pull in—right after work, she's kept her word—but he doesn't get up or go out to meet her. He stays right where he is in his protective little cocoon of a bedroom where he listens to music and smokes stale Marlboros. She doesn't come into the house, though. The next thing he knows she stands next to his open window. Not directly in front of it, sort of off to the side. "If you don't want to go with me, that's fine," she says, her tone neutral. "But you really should see this car. It's easy to get to Jay's place. Just follow the highway into town and turn left on Water Street. You'll see my truck in the driveway." She hesitates. "Whatever you've had to go through to get here, I'm selfish enough to be glad it brought you to me," she says quietly, and then she's gone.

She's right; it’s easy to find the guy’s house. He pulls the bike in behind Roz's truck and dismounts, peers at the cluster of shabby buildings at the end of the driveway as he removes his helmet. After a moment a man emerges from the shadows of an open garage as he wipes his hands on a blue cloth. Greg moves toward him, takes in details: average height, late thirties probably, dark and thin like Roz. _That body type_ does _get passed down on the Italian side,_ he thinks, and suppresses the urge to look for her.

"Hey," the man says. "Jay Lombardi. You must be Greg." He gestures with the cloth at the bike. "Excellent ride."

 _A man of few words,_ Greg thinks with inward amusement. _That must get handed down too, at least with the males._ He gives in to the urge to see who can win the Most Laconic award and offers a nod. "Here about the car."

Jay simply turns and goes back up the drive. Greg follows him. His spurt of humor fades as the bay comes into view. The interior is illuminated only by a portable light hooked over a pulley, but it's enough to show him Roz is nowhere in sight.

"She needs a wash and wax," Jay says. "Don't have to be clean on the outside to run, though."

Greg switches his attention from a search of the garage to the car. For a moment what he sees doesn't register. Then his eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat.

"Thirty four thousand original miles," Jay says. “One owner, original paint and interior." He pops the hood. "Twin T62 turbo chargers, twin fuel pumps. On fifteen pounds of boost and pump gas I'm gettin' a thousand horsepower. Five hundred forty cubic inches—the original three ninety six is in storage, you can have it for some extra cash. Crower crankshaft, Hotchkis suspension, variable ratio power steering . . ."

Jay's voice fades into the background as Greg comes up to the car. _It's a Chevelle,_ he thinks. _A sixty-eight Chevelle with twin turbos. Holy freakin’_ shit _._ The color is a midnight blue so deep it might as well be black, with custom crimson and white stripes around the bottom of the panels and the base of the hood. The old paint glows with years of loving care, a soft burnished patina.

The jangle of keys bring him back to the present. "Take 'er out," Jay says. "See how she handles."

Greg accepts the keys, more of an automatic reaction than anything else. He glances around one more time for Roz, looks at the car, gives up and gets in.

The interior is magnificent, black leather with a deep front bench he loves on sight; bucket seats can be a bitch for someone with a bad leg. He pulls the door shut, inserts the key, warms her up and turns her over. She starts with a throaty purr that sends a wild thrill right down to his toes. He backs out with care to find Roz at the end of the drive. She tosses her jumpsuit and boots into the cab  of her truck; she’s got on a tank top and cutoffs, her feet bare. He stops next to her, leans over and pops the passenger side door. She doesn't hesitate to accept his silent offer, and they are on their way.

Of course it handles like a total cherry dream; he floors it on a straightaway and it's the earthbound equivalent of liftoff in a private jet. The next temptation is a burnout, something he manages on the same deserted stretch of highway. He's rusty and the back end fishtails a bit, but he leaves behind a cloud of tire smoke and a respectable length of rubber.

"Good thing Jay put on an old pair of Firestones this morning," Roz says, her tone wry. Greg glances at her. She offers him a smile, but she looks tired; her thick hair is a bit lank and streaked with dust, and her eyes are shadowed. He knows then she got little or no sleep last night as well as no rest after work, and it's his fault for a couple of reasons at least.

"Don’t know what the hell I’d do with this thing," he says, more harshly than he'd intended. "I don't need a damn muscle car."

"It's you," Roz says. "Come on," she persists when he gives a derisive laugh, "it is. Classic lines, sporty but not flashy, and it's outrun the cops at least three times that I know of."

"You're comparing me to a car. That’s great." He doesn't know whether to be insulted or amused.

"It doesn't get better than a Chevelle SS," Roz says simply. "Draw your own conclusions."

They bring it back a few gallons lighter but in perfect shape. Jay stands to one side, a greasy rag twisted in his hands. Greg pulls into the bay and shuts down the engine in stages. When it's finally silent he mutters "I must be out of my fucking mind to even consider this. It's gonna jack my insurance sky-high along with the damn bike."

"You'll need something to drive when the cold weather hits," Roz says. Greg rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, this is completely practical for wintertime."

"You want practical, get a damn Civic," Roz says, her impatience plain. "You came here to do whatever it is you're going to do with your life. Do it the way you want to. Fuck what everyone else says or thinks." She opens the door and gets out, shuts it gently, then walks away to her truck. He watches her, prey to a number of conflicting emotions.

 _So what are you going to do with the years you've presumably got ahead of you? _He thinks of the talk he and Sarah had a couple of days ago, to figure out the requirements for his reinstatement—the differences between Jersey and New York state boards, and where he'll end up to get his hours. There's no doubt in his mind he'll have his license back; he has an idea of what could come next but it's only an idea, hardly more than a single idle thought. There's a huge amount of work involved to make that idea real, so much it scares him when he stops to really think about it. He'll need every penny of the incredibly generous bonus Cuddy gave him, and more besides. To waste money on a car like this one is idiotic; he’d really be better off with that Civic Roz mentioned.

After a few moments he removes the keys, exits the vehicle, and hands them to Jay. "Thirty-two," he says.

"Can't let 'er go for less than fifty," Jay says.

"Way too rich for my blood," Greg says, though in actuality it's not a bad price for something this prime. "Thirty-five."

"Forty-five." Jay folds his arms.

"Forty," Greg says.

"Forty-three."

"Forty-two." There is a moment of silence.

"Done," Jay says finally. "But only if you bring her to me for repairs. You might own her, but she'll always be my baby."

Greg blinks. There is real emotion in the other man's voice for the first time. "Uh . . . yeah. Okay. Done."

They exchange numbers and other bits of necessary information, with a promise to meet later in the week to formalize the agreement, make payment and hand over the title. Then Greg is on his way home, a little numb, his head so crowded with thoughts he can hardly contain them all.

"Where've you been?" Sarah asks when he comes into the kitchen, his helmet tucked under his arm. The whole house reeks of pickles, and there are rows of quart jars filled with newly-canned batches of kosher dills and thick hamburger chips on the counter. "Out touring the big city?"

"Bought a car," he says. Sarah shoots a look of surprise his way as she puts a jar into the canner.

"What did you get?"

"Sixty eight Chevelle," he says, and unzips his jacket. Sarah turns to face him.

"You bought a _muscle_ car?" She's not appalled; she sounds excited. Greg gives her a level stare.

"Yeah."

" _Cool._ " She really is excited. "Way cool." She tilts her head. "Wait—you bought Jay's project. That SS he's had for ages."

"How do you know about that?" he demands. Sarah laughs.

"The whole village knows about it. Gene will be so jealous! I can't wait to tell him." She turns back to the canner. "That’s so awesome. You won't regret it."

He can't help but poke at her. "That's it--you're not going to question my judgment."

"Greg, I have no reason to do so. Just don't burn rubber in the lane, okay? It makes Bob's horse nervous." She puts the last quart in the canner. "I wouldn't object to a ride when you bring it home, though." Once the lid is on she wipes her hands on her apron. "I can just see you now, parking that thing in the hospital lot. Every nurse in the place will want to date you."

It takes a second for the import of her words to sink in. "You were able to make the arrangements that fast?"

"I pulled in a favor or two," she says.

He knows she did more than that, a lot more. His gratitude is utterly inadequate, but it's all he's got to offer. "Thanks," he mutters. She comes forward and stands slightly to one side. Her smile fades a little.

"We go to Albany on Friday. You'll meet with the medical board, of course. They'll have an attorney with your records and they'll go over—"

"I know what it means," he snaps. They'll bring up everything--the addiction, the scrip stealing . . . all the bullshit with Tritter too. He tries to swallow and can't as panic starts to fill him up.

You won't be alone." Sarah's voice is quiet, honest. She doesn't try to soothe or comfort him; she just tells the truth. "I'll be there to give testimony and offer evidence of your progress. Everything you've done more than meets the requirements for rehabilitation. I checked on license transfer from New Jersey to New York as well. You shouldn't have a problem." She pauses. "May I touch you?" He nods. She puts a hand on his arm, light as a butterfly, and he remembers that day in the yard in Mayfield under a scorching sun, when she'd offered him hazelnut ice cream and the start of something like hope and real friendship, though he didn't know it at the time. "I'm honored to help you with this. You're worth it, Greg."

Later, as he sits on the patio within a protective cloud of citronella and Off! and watches fireflies dance above the lawn, he thinks over the day's events. Roz is conspicuous by her absence this evening; it bothers him more than he wants to admit. After a while he pulls out his phone and speed dials her number. It goes to voicemail. He smiles a little at her message ("Keep it short, okay?"); when the beep prompts him he says

"Once the car's mine we're going out," and ends the call. He puts the phone away, snuffs the candles, stands up and goes inside, to leave the rest of the night to the lightning bugs.

_‘One Summer Night,’ the Danleers_


	2. Chapter 2

_August 9th_

"You look fine," Sarah says for the third time that morning. "Stop messing with your jacket, you'll undo all my hard work steaming out the wrinkles." She smoothes a lapel with careful fingers and gives him a steady look. "Don't worry about Doctor Wirth. She can be a dragon, but she won't breathe fire unless you really deserve it."

Greg resists the childish urge to grab her hand and hold on tight. After last week's ordeal (a three-hour interrogation with the medical board's attorney that could have been the very definition of the term 'grueling'), this interview will be relatively simple. Still, he can feel the insidious pull of his innate loathing for and distrust of authority figures of any kind. He also knows to give in to the urge to rebel is to create a disaster of vast proportions for himself and Sarah, but it may not be possible for him to resist, because he hasn't decided if he's actually going to—resist, that is. It would be easier at least to just give up, lie down and let the current take him where it will . . . straight into trouble, as usual.

"Doctor House?" A receptionist appears. She holds a neon-yellow transparent clipboard in one hand, with a polite smile that doesn't reach her eyes plastered in place. _She shouldn't wear bright red lipstick_ , Greg thinks apropos of nothing. "Come with me please."

He follows the woman into an office, already tense in anticipation of the nightmare to come. The receptionist indicates a chair, gives him a distant nod and disappears. Greg remains on his feet as he looks around the room. It's smaller than he thought it would be; there is a distinct lack of anything like prestige or cachet within this simple space. Only one spot in the entire office is clear of piles—a table upon which rests a pristine twelve-cup coffeemaker, a bag of Blue Bottle Coffee Company’s Three Africans blend, a glass pint mason jar filled with teaspoons, and a fully-loaded mug tree. Under the table is a cube fridge. _For real cream and emergency supplies_ , Greg thinks in momentary amusement. _It's a shrine to survival. I do like her priorities._

"Good morning."

He turns to find an older woman in the doorway. She is short, dumpy and hopelessly grey-haired, dressed in a shapeless lab coat over a black henley tee and olive chinos, her feet clad in battered sneaks. A stethoscope is tucked in her right front coat pocket; there are files wedged under her left arm. "Doctor House," she says, and comes in without a handshake or a 'please be seated'. There are no attempts to establish dominance because none are needed. She slaps the files on her desk and flattens several nests of paperwork in the process. "Coffee?"

It's an excellent brew; darker than dark, a bit harsh at first taste but fragrant and silky on further acquaintance, with strong notes of molasses and rich brown sugar on the finish. He sips it with cautious enjoyment, grateful for the heat that seeps through the thick walls of the mug to warm his numb fingers.

"From your records it's more than plain that you have exceptional observational skills even for a world-class diagnostician, but it still bears pointing out that we are not much more than a glorified clinic. And not all that glorified, when you come down to it." Doctor Wirth watches him with keen blue eyes. "Anything truly interesting usually gets sent to the real hospitals in the region. It sucks, but that's how it is." She sets down her mug. "Can you handle two hundred and forty hours of sore throats, chicken pox and prescribing prenatal vitamins?"

He'd known from the start he'd be on what amounted to clinic duty if he accepts this setup. A large part of him wants to mess with his new boss, challenge her, offer spurious bargains--everything he would have done to Cuddy without a second thought. "No chance I could just be called in for the good stuff, then."

"Well, we do get the occasional farm accident or car crash. And every now and then someone ends up with food poisoning or kicks off from a massive coronary." Her expression doesn't change, but he senses her amusement. "At that rate you'd get your hours in around ten years from now."

 _When it comes down to it, I have no choice_. "Figured as much. It sucks, but that's how it is." _I'll find a way to mess with her later. A little observation is in order first, to discover weaknesses and foibles._

"Well said." She flashes him a quick grin, and just for a moment there's wicked mischief in her eyes. He wonders what she was like when she was younger. A heller, no doubt. "Let's take a look around."

Clinic-like this place may be, but he is a little surprised to see some fairly up-to-date equipment and a well-stocked dispensary. The ER-slash-examination area is the definition of utilitarian, with three bays and one crash cart. Still, everything is set up for easy use, with stations designed to make critical care flow smoothly. The nurses eye him as he walks around. He eyes them back. There's not a looker in the bunch, just youngish women with hairstyles they haven't changed since high school, dressed in scrubs with the usual pastels or flower prints.

There's only one ward. It consists of twenty beds and a nurse's station, with an enclosed area near the desk set up for emergency ICU or clean-room needs, and the opposite end turned into a little pediatric section. At the moment the ward is empty. He suspects that's the case some of the time, but not all of it. The bulletin board behind the station has the usual memos and official postings alongside photos of weddings, graduations and newborns or toddlers. It's exactly what he'd expect from a small community where the nurses are often part of the patient’s extended or even immediate family.

"I'd love to have my own lab," Doctor Wirth says, "but it's not practical. I could never justify the expense for the few patients we see. It took forever to get our own in-house laundry."

The employee breakroom consists of a small kitchen and lounge as well as some lockers and a two-seater bathroom. There’s a fridge, a microwave above an apartment-sized range and another coffeemaker. He’s somewhat relieved to see a long couch, several shabby recliners and even a smallish flat-screen tv and DVD player next to an older stereo. A bookcase holds paperbacks and a stack of magazines in a wide array of topics, and several swimsuit issues of _Sports Illustrated_.

"Set up for extended stays during snowstorms," Doctor Wirth says with a slight smile. "If you want to make friends for life, bring in new movies. We've watched the current collection way too many times over the last couple of years. New books are good too.” She glances at her watch. “Let's go check out your office."

It's barely a broom closet, but it does have the basic amenities-desk, chair, even a computer. It's a far, far cry from his roost at PPTH, but then it also doesn't have glass walls. Frankly he hadn't even thought he'd get an office.

"You probably won't spend a lot of time here but feel free to make it yours," Wirth says. She doesn't enter after he steps in to check out the desk; two people together in this small space legally constitutes sexual intercourse, no doubt. "You can watch anything you like except porn." At his glance she laughs, a pleasant sound. It reminds him a bit of Sarah. "I'm wise to the hardwired pathways of the male mind. Speaking of which, let's go see Doctor Singh. He'll be your supervisor."

The person in question sits on what amounts to the back step, a bottle of Coke in hand. He is in his mid-forties, average height and weight, possessed of no looks in particular and a receding hairline that makes Greg wince inwardly in sympathy for a fellow hair-loss sufferer. His dark eyes hold a gleam of sly good humor, so much like Kutner’s expression it causes a little stab of sorrow, quickly pushed down and ignored.

"Sandesh Singh. Thank god," the man says when Wirth introduces them, "fresh blood at long last." He has a slight accent that lends his words a crispness not often heard in American conversation. "Has Diane shown you all the horrors that await?"

"Some," Greg says. "Haven't seen any patients though, so presumably the worst is yet to come."

Singh shakes his head. "And you're still here. You must be completely mental. That means we'll get along fairly well." He stuffs the now-empty Coke bottle into his coat pocket. "All right then, guess I'll see you around the schoolyard. Time to put peanut butter on the tongue depressors. It's the only way to shut up screaming kids. Who cares what their tonsils look like?" It's obvious this guy has the potential to be a kindred spirit. Maybe things won't be as dire as they first appeared.

They find their way back to Wirth's office, where Greg signs papers and gets an employee ID. "You can start tomorrow if you want to." Doctor Wirth stacks the forms and places them in a folder, which goes atop a pile propped up by the computer monitor. "I don't really care what you wear as long as it's clean and covers armpits, genitals, buttocks and feet. I've been given to understand you don't like lab coats."

Greg keeps an impassive expression while he wonders who would have divulged this bit of information. "I have my reasons."

She shrugs. "Fine by me, but I will warn you that we get runs of sick kids in here fairly regularly, emphasis on 'runs'. About the fourth time you've had to change because someone's puked, peed or pooped on you and we're out of clean scrubs, you'll wish you had something to cover your street clothes. I leave it up to you, though."

When they arrive back in the waiting area Sarah casts her magazine aside and gets to her feet. "Everything still on?" 

"Unfortunately for this place, yes," Greg says. Wirth gives him a wry look.

"I think you have that backwards," she says. "Anyway, let me know when you want to begin and we'll start the clock."

"Monday," he says before he loses his courage. "It's as good a day as any."

"Ah." Wirth looks surprised and then pleased. "Okay then. See you on the sixteenth. Start time’s eight-thirty a.m., so we can get you oriented and Singh can show you the ropes. The two of you get to argue over who works swing and on-call for graveyard. Just let me know what you decide." And with that the interview is over.

"We're going out," Sarah says on the way home. "I want a ride on the bike in exchange for supper at Lou's."

"Celebrating . . ." Greg isn't sure he's up for it. "No point in doing that. I'm stuck with a job now."

'Okay, then let's say I need a night off from my own cooking, and you’re going to take me."

"Gene won’t approve." It's a weak riposte but his heart isn't in it.

“He won’t care. But we can call him and ask, if you want.” Sarah gives him a smile. “Come on. You done good, as they say back home. Let’s whoop it up a little.”

And so, as long shadows have nearly completed their advance across the lawn, Greg steps out of the house. He hands Sarah his extra helmet and climbs aboard the ‘blade. It’s a good evening for a ride; the sky is clear, the air still warm. Sarah settles in behind him and wraps her arms around his middle, then gives him a gentle hug.

“Hey!” he growls at her, though a smile tugs at his mouth. “Cut it out.”

“Sorry,” she says without a shred of apology in her words. He chuckles and starts up the engine, and they are off.

It’s more than obvious that Sarah is familiar with back-seat protocol; she leans into turns and doesn’t lay her weight on him, nor does she hold on too tightly or try to talk. On the highway he pushes the speed just to see what she’ll do. She laughs and gives him a thumbs-up, so he takes the long way, swoops around curves and hams it up for her enjoyment, and his as well.

It’s almost dark by the time they arrive in the village. The restaurant is busy but not crowded; they find a booth and settle in. When their waitress shows up however, it’s something of a shock. “Welcome to Lou’s,” Roz says with a smile. She has on a coral-pink cap-sleeve blouse and black jeans under her apron; her hair is a little damp, which makes the ends curl wildly, and she smells faintly of lavender and flowers. The soft color of the blouse gives her brown skin a glow that almost hides the faint shadows under her eyes. “What can I get for you?”

“You’re here instead of at home,” Greg says. He narrows his gaze. “You’re an electrician, not a carhop.”

“The kid called in sick so Poppi needed some help,” Roz says. She looks at him, then at Sarah, brows raised. “What’s up?”

“We’re celebrating,” Sarah says before Greg can speak. “The good doctor here begins work at the center next Monday.”

Roz’s eyes widen a little in surprise, and then she offers a genuine smile. “Hey, that’s great! Congratulations!” She puts her order pad back in her apron pocket. “This calls for something special.”

“You’ll let me do you on the table,” Greg says, and ignores Sarah’s snort.

“Not that special,” Roz says without hesitation. “Not yet, anyway.” She bends down and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before he even realizes what she’s up to. Her fingers brush the nape of his neck, tender and intimate, a quick little caress that sends a shiver right through him. “Trust me, I’ll bring you something worth your while.”

“Hmm,” Sarah says as Roz disappears into the back. “She’s got it bad for you, son.”

“Not bad enough,” he says, a bit preoccupied with the echoes of her touch. “Otherwise she would have taken me up on my offer.”

“She just did,” Sarah says. “That was definitely first base. Considering she’s in a public place and looking at another eight hours or so on her feet, I’d say you’re a very lucky man.”

A few minutes later Roz returns with a pitcher and two glasses. “Compliments of the kitchen. Your appetizers will be up shortly.” She pours something into each glass, then heads into the kitchen. Greg peers into the depths of his drink.

“There appears to be ice in here,” he says. “And mint. But mojitos aren’t yellow. Someone peed in the mix.”

“It’s lemonade,” Sarah says. “Homemade, not the powdered stuff.”

He takes a cautious sip and anticipates sourness. Instead he gets pure clear lemon, tart-sweet, with a good hit of peppermint in the aftertaste. It’s cool, refreshing and utterly delicious.

After a short wait, Roz returns loaded with goodies. “Onion rings extra dark and mozzarella sticks with Poppi’s _marinara_.” She sets plates in front of them along with silverware and real linen napkins, then serves the platters. As she puts down the onion rings she hesitates. “I’m—I’m up for a five-minute break when the main course comes out . . .” She doesn’t look at either one of them.

“Don’t sit on the back step reading _Playgirl_ , keep us company instead,” Greg says. Roz nods and glances at him. She’s pleased, it’s obvious.

“Okay,” she says, and heads off to another table with new arrivals to take their drinks order. Greg munches an onion ring, savoring the just-short-of-burnt caramelized flavor.

“Is it really that difficult to believe she wants to spend time with you?” Sarah puts some of the _marinara_ on her plate and dips a mozzarella stick in it. “Or maybe you don't really believe you want to spend time with her.”

“See, that’s the trouble with getting inside people’s heads for a living,” Greg says. “You start thinking it’s a full-time occupation.”

Sarah laughs. “Yes, all right. But it’s still worth considering.” At his glare she takes a large bite out of the stick. Her expression promises a discussion later on, when he won't have any excuses handy. He makes a mental note to avoid her for the next few days—shouldn’t be too hard if he can hide out till Monday, since he’ll spend quite a few hours at work once he gets started. So weird to remember he’s employed now, even if it’s to remove the suspension and fulfill requirements for the New York board. It hasn’t been all that long since he left Princeton-Plainsboro either.

 _Things have changed_ , he thinks. He’s not sure how he feels about that. Some part of him welcomes the move forward. Another part of him is wary of too many changes too fast.

Ten minutes later Roz brings out a pizza that is truly magnificent—mozzarella and pecorino romano cheeses mixed with chopped fresh basil, oregano and rosemary under Parma ham, green peppers, red onions and black olives, along with extra-virgin olive oil and more _marinara_ and garlic butter on the side as a dip for the crusts. She takes away their plates and silverware to be replaced with clean sets, refreshes their drinks, serves them both a slice of pizza, and slides into the other side of the booth. Out of the corner of his eye Greg sees Lou emerge from the kitchen and go to a table, order pad in hand. “You should have more people working here,” he says. “This place is too busy for just one waitress.”

“Poppi has two, but Marge’s daughter is sick and the kid . . . he’s lazy.” She shrugs. “It happens sometimes.”

“And you’re just expected to pick up the slack.” For some reason that annoys Greg. “You’ve already worked a full day for that slave driver you call a boss.”

 “Poppi doesn’t expect me to do anything. I came in because he needed help.”

“So Lou could use another server,” Sarah says. Roz shrugs again and steals an onion ring off the platter.

“Then he could fire the kid, who’s worse than useless,” she says, and folds up the ring to fit the whole thing into her mouth. “Mmmm . . .”

“Thief,” Greg says. For answer Roz chews slowly, her attitude one of total challenge. Her dark green eyes gleam with humor and something else he can’t place.

“Want it back?” she says with her mouth full.

“Knock it off, you two,” Sarah says. “Poppi’s coming over.” Greg automatically sits up straight before he can stop himself; Roz swallows her food. Sarah chuckles. “Hey Lou,” she says, her tone cheerful. She ignores Greg’s sidelong glare.

“Doctor Goldman.” Lou nods. “Doctor House. I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Thanks. We haven’t let Gene know yet but he should get the divorce papers any day now,” Greg says. Roz rolls her eyes as Lou shakes his head.

“You’ll keep Doctor Wirth amused,” he says. “I’d like to invite you and Roz to my house for dinner next week.” He glances at Sarah. “You are also welcome, Doctor Goldman.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think Greg and Roz need a chaperone.” Sarah gives Lou a warm smile. “Your offer is appreciated, though.”

Greg feels his stomach clench. The food he’s eating loses all its taste. He’d known this moment was in the works, but still he’s unprepared for the fear it conjures up. “Checking out your granddaughter’s older, crippled and newly-employed boyfriend,” he says, and looks just past Lou’s shoulder, unable to meet his gaze. “Very wise.”

“Yes,” Lou says, unruffled by Greg’s provocative tone. “It’s a chance for you to check me out as well, you know. Two-way street.” He glances at the door as a family walks in. “I’ll let Roz get the details. Good luck with the new job.” He moves to the kitchen door as Roz slides out of the booth and stands next to Greg.

“Enjoy, and maybe we’ll talk later, if you like.” This time when she bends to give him a kiss he’s ready. He lingers over it, so that when they part Roz’s eyes shine, her lips are slightly swollen and there’s a blush on her cheeks. He watches her head for one of her tables, a little strut in her walk, and allows himself a small smile.

“Don’t play with her,” Sarah says quietly. “She has enough to deal with, living here.”

“I won’t break her heart,” Greg watches her. “She’s not that emotionally involved.”

“Isn’t she?” It’s a simple question but it hits him hard and deep.

“No, she isn’t.” He says it with such conviction he almost believes it.

Later though, as he lies alone in his comfortable bed, he knows his statement for the untruth it is. Sarah is right. That knowledge scares him, because maybe . . . just maybe . . . he _does_ feel some kind of emotion for Roz, something more than mere lust.

 _Don’t_ , he tells himself. _You’re too old, you’re scarred in too many ways, you’re a joke. She deserves someone far better than you. Besides, you’ll probably leave someday and she won’t come with you, her life is here. It’s pointless to let yourself feel anything for her._

After a while he gives up and goes into the living room to play his guitar, where he tries not to think beyond the music and the warm summer night.


	3. Chapter 3

_August 13th_

Sarah pulls up in Jay's driveway and puts Minnie in park, then looks at Greg. "Got everything you need?"

"Driver's license, cash, Trojans," he says. "Yup, I'm good." He opens the door and hops out, careful not to land hard on his bad leg. The TENS unit is amazing, but he can still push too much and cause problems, as he's found out a few times over the last six months.

"Call me if you need me," Sarah says.

"Gee, you're still the world's bestest mom." He can't put enough sarcasm in that remark. Sarah gives him a wry look but there's affection there too, as he knew there would be.

"Have a good time."

Don't wait up," he tells her, and heads to the house.

The paperwork is accomplished at the kitchen table in Jay's place. From the look of things, he doesn't eat at home much. When Greg hands over the check, Jay stares down at it for a moment before he tucks it away in his shirt pocket. "You'll take good care of her, right?" he says. "Got a nice warm place to keep her for the winter?"

"Yeah," Greg says. _Didn't think of that. Now I have to find a garage. Fuckity fuck fuck._ "I'll feed her nothing but high-test and synthetic oil and change her diaper every two hours, you have my word."

"Any problems, you come to me." Jay takes another paper out of his jacket—it's the title. "I mean it. No one knows her like I do. She's set up to run on pump gas. Just make sure it's premium. Bring her in at fifteen hundred and I'll check everything."

Greg nods. "No problem, Mister Goodwrench."

Jay makes a sound that might be a chuckle. Then his humor fades as he gives Greg a level stare. "You take good care of Roz too. I'll hear about it if you don't. She's been hurt enough."

"I'll feed her nothing but high-test . . . no wait, I'm getting confused," Greg says, and falls silent at Jay's ferocious glare.

"Don't mess with her if you're not serious," he says. 'Roz is a good kid. She got a raw deal because her mom's an idiot. Don't make things worse for her."

 _Another warning. It's so heartwarming to inspire such trust._ "Not planning on it," Greg snaps. Jay nods and hands over the title.

"Okay, then."

It is weird as hell to climb behind the wheel of the Chevelle and realize she really is his now. Greg strokes the smooth leather of the bench seat. "Hello, baby," he says, and can't help but roll his eyes. "Great. Now _I'm_ starting to talk about you like you're a real woman. Yeesh." He shakes his head, but he gives the seat a little pat all the same before he starts the engine.

His first stop is Roz's place. As he pulls into the driveway she comes out her front door and runs down the steps toward him, her face bright with happiness. He watches her and feels a lightness of heart even the car didn't offer him. To his surprise she doesn't get in though. Instead she sticks her head through the open window. "Hey mister," she says. "Nice wheels."

"Hey cutie patootie," he says, his voice low and creepy. "Wanna ride? I got the pink slip."

Roz gives him a smile so bright he’s nearly blinded. "You bet, _amante_. Let me get some stuff and my keys." She withdraws before he can react. She returns a few minutes later with a cooler and two pillows. As she hops in he favors her with a glare.

"Knock it off with the Italian nicknames," he warns her. She leans over and kisses his cheek.

"Nope," she says, and smiles when he growls in annoyance. "So how about we christen this beauty good and proper?"

Greg quirks an eyebrow as his pique fades. "Lay it on me. Literally, I'm hoping."

Roz laughs. "That's the idea. Let's go to the drive-in and make out."

Greg stares at her in disbelief. The most he'd hoped for was a few hours in a quiet lane somewhere. "You have a _drive-in_ around here?"

"Just on the weekends after July fourth up to Labor Day, but they show double features and cartoons, mostly horror, some sci-fi _._ Friday nights are PG-13 and above. It's really great for getting up close and personal. You know, from clinging to each other in terror."

It goes against everything he believes in to say what he's about to say, but he has to—she's earned enough of his respect for him to make the effort. "Okay—you do understand that by going out to a known passion pit in a car this conspicuous—hell, in _any_ vehicle, you'll be trashing your reputation beyond repair. Not only that, you'll be with a guy everyone's probably decided is in the throes of a midlife crisis and trying hard to deny his lifetime membership in the Cripple Club. And there's also the 'I want to get to know you better first' line you keep throwing at me."

Roz says quietly, "I understand all of that."

Greg stares at her, baffled. "Then why—"

She turns her head to look him straight in the eye. "I said you should live your life the way you want to. Maybe it's time I took my own advice. I'm tired of trying to show people I'm not my mom. If they don't believe it, nothing I do will make a difference anyway. Besides," her voice softens, "I really would like to go with you to the movies and fool around." She gives him a little smile. "I'm totally warm for your form, you know _._ " The light in her eyes tells him she feels much more than that. Sarah's words at the restaurant come back, clear and cold: _don't play with her._ He knows he is in danger of something he's not sure he's ready for, but then he's never felt ready for any personal relationship in his life, so that's no help. With a metaphorical shrug he decides to keep going.

"Well, since you put it that way . . ." He leers at her and puts a hand on her thigh. "Okeydoke, _ragazza_." When he peels out she cheers and then settles in next to him, so that her bare leg brushes his.

They stop off at the grocery store ("they don't have a snack stand, we have to bring our own popcorn and Coke," Roz informs him) and indulge in a leisurely cruise through the village and out the other side. Sure enough, a few miles down the road and over the top of a hill there is a tall screen set up and an illuminated trailer sign that reads 'SKY DRIVE-IN/OPEN' in big red letters, ringed with colored Christmas lights. They pull in behind a substantial line of cars at the ticket booth; it consists mostly of teenagers and young couples. Greg feels like the pervert he half-pretended to be earlier. He's easily the oldest person here.

"So what? Greg, I'm thirty-something," Roz replies when he says that aloud. "I'm not going to get busted for watching an R-rated movie with my boyfriend. Besides, everyone else will be too busy necking to notice us."

At last the line begins to move. Soon enough they are waved into a spot by a young guy with a red-cone flashlight.

"Cool, we got back row. That's the best," Roz says. Greg pauses as he pulls a Coke out of the cooler.

"I'm not going to ask how you know that."

"I've been here a time or two," she says, and takes a Coke for herself. "Mostly with friends, once or twice with a guy." She doesn't look at him. "Just because I'm not a slut doesn't automatically mean I'm a virgin."

"Me neither," he says. "Yay for us, we don't have to read the instructions before I open the condom. It's tough trying to see that small print with just the light from the dashboard."

Roz laughs. "Grab the speaker and hang it in the window," she says. "They play good music before the show starts."

Of course the very first song they hear is Bruce Springsteen's 'Glory Days'. Greg rolls his eyes.

"Way to rub it in," he mutters. Roz rests her head against his shoulder.

"Don't worry. Your best years are ahead of you."

"What the hell makes you say that?" he snaps, but she doesn't get upset.

"I don't know but it's true, you'll see. Poppi says I have the sight. That means you can relax and enjoy the music."

"Bullshit," he grumbles. Still, he has to admit it's pretty damn great to sit in a righteous ride that's all his, his girl snuggled in beside him while a decent tune fills the warm, sweet evening air. _Life is good_ , he thinks _,_ and feels a shock of utter disbelieving astonishment at the thought.

"What is it?" Roz asks. "You're shivering. Are you cold?"

"It's nothing." He pushes away his surprise and brings her closer as light flickers and grows on the big screen. The cartoon starts, but he doesn’t any attention to it. He's focused on the woman next to him, who giggles at the antics of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. About five minutes in he decides to make his first move. He turns her face toward him with a careful finger under her chin and presses little kisses around her mouth before he goes for the main attraction. She opens to him without hesitation; her hand slides down his arm as the kiss deepens, and her tongue strokes his with an assured eagerness that makes a certain part of him stir. When they come up for air she rests her forehead against his temple.

"Mmmm . . ." Her sigh vibrates gently though his flesh. Greg eases a hand under her tank top and winces as she leans against his thigh. Her concern is immediate. "What is it? Did I hurt you?"

"We need to switch places," he says with reluctance.

After Roz clambers over him, it takes five minutes to get comfortable again. By the time they're settled once more his enjoyment has vanished, as has his incipient erection. One small gesture has reminded him of everything that's not good about his life. When Roz tries to kiss him again he pulls away.

"Hey,' she says softly. "We're still learning what works and what doesn't. It's okay." She strokes his cheek, a slow, tender gesture. "I'll just remember to be on your left side from now on, that's all."

Greg closes his eyes, unwilling to admit there is comfort in her touch. "This is always going to be a problem. It's not like it'll ever go away."

Roz kisses him, a quick sweet buss on the lips that isn’t cloying or clingy. "I know." She settles in and slips an arm about his waist. "Wanna try again?"

"Maybe we could start . . ." He puts a hand on her left hip, lets it drift down to her tight little cheek. ". . . here."

"Fine with me," she says, and smiles at him.

They cop feels off each other while they kiss all through the next cartoon. He is continually impressed by how solid she is. For someone so lean she has decent muscle tone, probably from all the exercise she gets in her job. Her golden-brown skin is smooth, her hair thick and glossy; he rubs a strand between his fingers because he likes the silky feel of it against his skin, and breathes in her scent. When they take a break to shift position the movie's about twenty minutes in, Greg peers at the screen. "I don't believe it," he mutters, and starts to smile as recognition dawns.

"What?" Roz sits up and tugs her tank top down.

"Not what, who," he says. " _Barbarella_. Jane Fonda before she got all radicalized and humorless."

Roz watches the action for a few moments. "Looks pretty corny," she says. "Really sixties, with all that plastic and bouffant hair."

" _Corny_? More like horny. There's a difference," Greg says. "One's spelled with a c, the other's a state of bliss."

"I'll take your word for it," Roz says, and stretches. "I need to pee. Be right back." She leans in and kisses him. He's glad she did it, but he still says

"What was that for?"

"Just marking my place," she says, and gives him a saucy smile before she slips out the driver side door and disappears into the half-gloom. Greg sits back slowly. He feels relaxed and a little smug. When someone taps on the passenger side window he glances over, ready to say something snarky about people who forget things when their bladders are full. Outside the door stands Rick. He and Greg stare at each other for a few moments. Then Greg rolls the window all the way down.

"Any chance I can end this fight before it begins by pointing out you're missing a pair of really perky breasts up there on the screen?" he says.

"You brought Rosie _here_." Rick looks disgusted. "You couldn't take her on a real date and treat her with some decency?"

"Hey, she's the one who wanted to do a double feature and a triple grope," Greg says, and suddenly finds the other man's face only inches away.

"I don't know what the hell she sees in you," Rick says, "especially when you talk about her that way. I suggest you shut the fuck up before I punch your face in."

"So you actually do respect her." Greg widens his eyes. "You're the only one in town who does besides her grandfather. I'm impressed."

"No." Rick pauses. "I mean, yeah, I respect her. But so do other people." "He gives Greg a contemptuous look. "Not you, obviously."

"Don't include me with the idiots who talk about her like she's the one who wrote the book on all things slutty," Greg says. "Actually that was her mom, from what I hear."

"So what's your reason for showing up on the back row in Jay's car?" Rick's right hand flexes as if he's got the urge to make it into a fist.

"We're both consenting adults, but that's not my reason." He dares to lean a little closer to Rick and pops each word with extra emphasis. " _She_. _Suggested_. _This_. And by the way, this is _my_ car now."

"What the fuck ever," Rick says. "If Jay's stupid enough to sell it to you, that's his problem. I'm just sayin', I don't know what you think you're doin' with Rosie, but you'd better treat her like gold or I'll find out, you understand?"

"Do I have a choice?" Greg growls, and sees Rick's hand flex, relax.

"You hurt her, I'll find you." With that he pushes off into the night. Greg rolls the window back to halfway and stares unseeing at the screen, his thoughts in turmoil. When the driver's side door opens he turns to see Roz slide in next to him.

"Did you miss me?" she asks. Her smile fades when he doesn't answer. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He can't even look at her now.

"Well, something is." She doesn't touch him; it's clear she's already learned not to come close when he's upset. The knowledge only makes things worse. He doesn't answer her because he has no idea what to say. For a few minutes they sit in silence and pretend to watch the movie. At last he can stand it no longer. He gets out, goes to the driver's side, gets in.

"Move over," he says, and takes the speaker off the window, then starts the car.

"What's _wrong_?" Roz says. She sounds annoyed now, with the first edge of hurt in her voice. Greg doesn't answer her. When he says nothing she folds her arms and looks out the window. Neither one of them speaks again until he pulls into her driveway. He puts the Chevelle in park and lets it idle for a few moments.

"This was a bad idea," he says, and knows immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Roz opens the door, grabs the pillows and cooler, then turns to him.

"It was a _great_ idea," she says. Her voice trembles. "At least it was until you got some bug up your ass about being seen with me or something. Fine. You don't have to worry about that any more. I won't—won't darken your doorstep ever again." She tucks the pillows under her arm and shuts the door. "I'll tell Poppi dinner's off. Have a nice life."

"Will you shut up and let me finish?" he barks at her, but she just ignores him and marches up the drive, her back stiff, head held high. Once she's inside the house she turns off the porch light. He has been well and truly dismissed.

He takes the long way home, but the joy in his new ride has gone as flat as two day old soda pop. It is a relief to park the car at last and go into the house. He finds Sarah curled up on the couch, engrossed in a _Storm Chasers_ marathon. She gives him a surprised glance.

"You're home early," she says. Greg doesn't reply. He goes into the kitchen, gets a cold beer and comes back to the living room. He claims his easy chair and settles in, savors the first taste of brew.

"I screwed things up," he says finally. Sarah turns the sound down on the tv and sits up a little.

"What happened?"

"I took Roz home after three people warned me off her: you, her cousin, and that idiot who thinks he's in love with her."

"I didn't warn you off her," Sarah says. Greg waves a hand.

"Whatever." He downs another mouthful of beer. "Now she's kicked me out of her life."

Sarah settles back. "So, tell me."

It doesn't take long to give her the details. When he finishes she is silent. On the television, an SUV full of chasers is being buffeted by the winds of a small but intense tornado, resulting in rather predictable chaos. Finally she speaks. "First off, you didn't screw things up. You did make a mistake though."

He snorts. "Semantics."

There's a _difference_." She pauses. "You didn't tell her about Rick or Jay."

"No reason to," he says.

"There's every reason to." When he rolls his eyes she persists. "Look at it from Roz's point of view. She has no idea why you went from hot to cold, but she's had plenty of experience in being rejected because she's her mother's daughter. It's a natural conclusion for her to draw, given her history."

"I don't care about other people's stupidity," he snaps. "Shouldn’t have to tell her that again."

"You tell her as many times as it takes," Sarah says. "She's had a lifetime of being judged by someone else's reputation. That won't change overnight, Greg."

"If she's looking for me to give her constant reassurance, it ain't gonna happen."

"She needs the truth." Sarah sits back. "She's beginning to know you, but she's got more bad memories of being rejected than she has good memories of you being with her. So work on balancing the scales. You can start by telling her what happened."

"Oh, here it comes," he says, and downs the rest of his beer.

"Go to her house and talk with her." Sarah swings her legs down and puts her feet on the floor. "Roz can be prickly, but she's also reasonable. Let her cool off a little first." She stands up, stretches.

"Can't I just hope she'll forget about it?" At Sarah's steady look he sighs. "Yeah, okay."

While she goes into the kitchen he stares unseeing at the tv screen and tries not to think about what he'll have to do next.

_August 14th_

Roz dumped the last of the salad into the compost bin and washed up the bowl. As she worked she stared out the window into the back yard. It had been a long and boring day full of small annoyances and difficulties; she'd had to fix the beater bar on the vacuum cleaner twice, and the cat had hocked up a hairball in the middle of the living room right after she'd finished. But she'd scrubbed and dusted and sprayed until her home looked better than it had in a long time. Now she had a pile of laundry ready. She'd planned to do it on Sunday, but maybe it would be better to tackle it tonight and go to Poppi's house tomorrow. She hadn't spent a day off with him for some time.

She just started to sort colors from whites when a knock sounded at her front door. "Come on in, it's open!" she called, and tossed an armful of towels in the washer. She was about to close the lid when she heard a familiar thump-step. A moment later Greg appeared in the archway. His helmet dangled from his free hand. She dumped some soap in the washer, closed the lid with a bang, started the timer and faced him, but said nothing. He stared at her, his gaze piercing. Then he looked at the floor.

"I . . . I screwed things up last night," he said. Roz remained silent. "Some people . . . warned me not to hurt you, including what's his name—Rick." He sighed a little. "He came up while you were paying a visit to the PortaPotty.” He looked up and away, thumped the cane gently on the floor a couple of times. “It . . . spooked me. Not you peeing-Rick showing up like that." He shifted his feet. "I have a tendency to do that—hurt people. I . . . I don't want to hurt you."

Roz folded her arms. "Oh, well done. The sigh was a nice touch." She gave him her best flinty look. "How much of that speech is true?"

Greg's head lifted. "Damn, I practiced all afternoon." He stared at the floor. "Some of it." He shrugged. "What the hell, might as well go for broke. All of it."

The pain lodged in her heart since the previous evening subsided just a little, even though she knew this part of his act was just as calculated as the first. "So you decided it was better to say nothing to me and make me think I'd done something wrong?"

"You didn't give me a chance to explain!" he snapped. Roz shook her head.

"You never planned to say anything," she said. "Something happened to mess things around and you freaked out, that's why you—you dumped me."

"I said the wrong thing and you got pissed," he said. "You're too damn touchy for your own good."

"I know when someone's playing me," she said. Greg rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. Roz turned back to the washer. "Fine. You've explained yourself. You can go now."

He came a little closer. "I . . . brought a movie."

Roz didn't respond, only bent over to pick up some washcloths.

"I grabbed it online today, since we didn't really get to see it last night." He sounded uncertain. "Come on, it's a good movie. We could watch it together."

"I'm doing laundry," Roz said. Greg put his helmet on the kitchen table.

"Okay . . . you put things in the washer, I'll put them in the dryer, and we'll fold together. You could make dinner in between. Then we'll watch the movie. Deal?"

It was as close as he'd ever come to an apology, she knew him well enough by now to understand that much. _Do you want to be the one who's morally superior or do you want to be with him?_ a small voice deep within whispered. She struggled with it for a few moments, but common sense won out over righteous indignation. "Deal," she said. "I still have some Coke left over, unless you want a beer."

He took another couple of steps closer. "Beer's fine."

Roz turned to face him then. "The next time something happens, just _tell_ me," she said, and moved up to him. "All right?"

He looked down at her, his blue eyes bright with amusement, irritation and something like shame, all mixed together. "At least _you_ know now I always screw things up," he said.

She put her arms around him, breathed in the smell of leather and aftershave and his own subtle musk. "Guess it doesn't really matter."

_'Glory Days', Bruce Springsteen_

 


	4. Chapter 4

_August 15th_

Greg had just liberated a second beer from the fridge when Sarah took a package from its hiding place in the pantry and set it on the kitchen table. "Welcome back to the world of medicine, such as it is," she said.

Greg popped the cap on the Yuengling and regarded her with a long hard stare. He ignored her gift. "You think this is a step forward, don't you?" he asked at last.

"It can be," she said. "That's your choice." She picked up her ginger beer. "Are you feeling overwhelmed?"

"I don't know what I feel," he said under his breath.

"You can always talk to me," she said quietly.

"It's not that." He looked away.

"What?" she prompted softly when he fell silent.

"Let's just say I don't do well with new situations. I'm sure that revelation shocks you to the core." His fingers tightened on the bottle. He took a quick swallow.

"Tell me why," Sarah said, though she had a good idea what he was going to say.

He sat down next to her. "I could hand you a line of bullshit and say it started with all the new places we moved to when I was a kid, but . . . I've always dreaded change, ever since I can remember."

"Can you give me some history?"

He snorted. "I've been suspended and expelled from more schools than I can count, various relationships imploded and exploded, left or been fired from jobs and trashed my life a number of times. That enough to go on, or do you want more?"

Sarah recognized an anxiety attack about to happen. Coaxing or reassurance would only amplify his fear. She took a deep breath and plunged in. "I've made more mistakes than you have," she said. Greg lifted his gaze to hers. Astonishment gave way to anger.

"That's not funny," he snapped.

"It's not meant to be," she said. "I'm just saying, you're not unique."

"Prove it." Greg sat back and folded his arms. His blue eyes glittered.

"First let me define my terms," she said. "A mistake is something you learn from. Screwups are non-redeemable. I don't believe in non-redeemable."

"That's a total crock," Greg said. "It's rationalization. Failure is failure."

"This is not an all-or-nothing world," Sarah said. "We've talked about that before. You can't control what happens to you. You can only make choices about how you'll respond to what life dishes out, and those choices are influenced by your personal experiences. It's a given that you'll make mistakes, which is a good thing because humans tend to learn more from pain than pleasure."

Greg looked away. "I might agree with some of that," he said. "Maybe. Continue with your illustration, this should prove enlightening as regards your bizarre mental pathways, if nothing else."

"Okay. Last mistake first," she said. "I betrayed your trust." A lump rose up in her throat; she pushed it down and continued. "That was really stupid, but it taught me never to break a confidence again." She set her ginger beer on the table. "I married Gene."

"Oh, come on!" Greg turned his head to glare at her. "You two are nauseatingly happy together. Don't even—"

"It's my list, I can put whatever I want on it," she said. "I married Gene. He's lost his family and has no chance of having kids of his own now. But it was still the best mistake I ever made, for me at least. And that's been a good thing to realize as well, that I can be that selfish and still be worth loving as far as he's concerned." She readied herself for what came next.

"All right, that's enough." Greg's hand shot out and took hers in a firm grip. "I understand what you're trying to say."

"My baby," she said, determined to continue. "Probably the worst mistake of all, because I took an innocent life. At least it proved I was capable of regret and maybe loving someone. I'd pretty much convinced myself otherwise at that point." She managed a small smile. "Nothing you have trumps that one, admit it."

"I've killed patients," he said, his voice harsh.

She shook her head. "Not the same."

"You couldn't have raised that child with the knowledge of its origin hanging over you both. Some of what happened was for the best." His hand squeezed hers gently, even though his voice was still caustic.

"I don't know. Maybe," Sarah said softly. She knew she had to tread carefully now or she'd lose him. "What about you and Stacy? Could you have stayed with her, knowing she felt she had no choice but to betray you?"

"I pushed her away." The anguish was there, hidden under his overt self-loathing. "She tried to stay, but . . ."

"She changed your life in a way no one could consider anything less than a betrayal," Sarah said. "You weren't able to forgive her, at least not then. That isn't a screwup, Greg. It's the fallout from an untenable situation. There was no way anyone could have avoided making mistakes given the outcome from the first error in diagnosis your attending made."

"I should have let them take the damn leg." He wouldn't look at her.

"You couldn't," she said. "Amputation would make you less than whole."

He laughed then, hard and bitter. "Because I'm so damn perfect now! I ran eight miles before breakfast and pitched four innings in the softball league last night, just in case you missed it."

"You don't have two good legs, that's true. Even if you did you wouldn't be perfect, because no one is. No one has to be, either. That's a good thing, because perfection is impossible and boring as hell anyway." She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand in a slow, gentle circle. "When someone tells you you're a screwup because you can't meet some insane standard, I want your reply to be 'No'. Do your best to let it go after that."

Greg was silent a long time. Then he nodded once. They sat that way for a while, at ease in the quiet kitchen, the sound of crickets soft in the warm evening air.

"What's in the fiendish thingy?" he said at last.

"Easy way to find out," she said. He released her hand, picked up the package and removed the wrapping to reveal a plain white box. He held it for a moment, then opened it. Inside was a dusty-blue three-quarter length lab jacket, cut baseball style with raglan sleeves. "Just in case you need a little protection from the predations of small children," Sarah said. "I thought it would be nice if you had the option. Use it if you want to. If you don't that's fine too." She gestured. "Go on, there's more."

Greg gave her an inscrutable look, then lifted up the coat. Beneath it lay something wrapped in tissue paper: a stethoscope; not a new model, this one was well-used, though clean and in working order. He picked it up and examined it. "There’s a story here,” he said.

"It was my psychiatrist's," Sarah said. "When she retired, she gave it to me. She said that of all her patients, I was the one who had worked the hardest and come the farthest, and she wanted me to always know that without words." She touched the bell, then looked at Greg. "Now I'm giving it to you for the same reason. I hope you can use it."

He placed it atop the jacket. "Thanks," he said after a few moments.

"There's more," Sarah said with a smile. Greg tilted his head and favored her with a hard stare.

"You're enjoying this."

"Yes, I am." She waved at the box. "Have at it."

It didn’t take him long to find the small package under the rest of the tissue paper. He opened it and found the harmonica tucked away inside. His eyes widened a little. "A B-Rad," he said, and turned it over with careful fingers. "There's a six-month waiting list and they don't come cheap."

"True." Sarah shrugged. "I ordered it a while back." She hoped the implication of that remark would sink in. It did.

"You're saying you knew this day would come," Greg said slowly. She nodded.

"Yup. I figured when it did, you would enjoy the ability to make your own kind of music whenever and wherever you like."

One corner of his mouth quirked up. "Nice work, Mama Cass."

"Hey, you're more than welcome." She took a swallow of her ginger beer. "Will you need something to help you sleep? I always have the yips the night before a new job."

Greg tucked the harmonica in his pocket, a move Sarah noted with satisfaction. "I figured I'd just drink myself into oblivion. It's a time-honored tradition."

"How about an extra Lyrica and an early night instead?" Sarah said. "I'll be working with Laynie this evening if you want a distraction." She watched Greg's eyes brighten and hid a smile. He and her chasing partner had hit it off right from the start, with the two of them in competition to see who could be more outrageous.

"Roz finds out I'm trading double entendres with Jorgesen while contemplating the exquisite beauty of her rack, I'm dead meat," Greg said. Sarah laughed.

"Laynie hits on Roz too. She just gives it right back."

That caught his interest, as Sarah had known it would. "I'd like to get in on that action."

"I'm sure it could be arranged." She took his empty bottle. "Come on, keep me and Laynie company, it'll be entertaining if nothing else."

Greg spent the next two hours or so in an exchange of jokes and graphic innuendo with Laynie, while Sarah worked on new data and kept a discreet eye on him. She was pleased to see him gradually relax somewhat, though she suspected he was still wound up tight deep within. She had confirmation of her suspicion when she passed by his room after he'd gone to bed and saw the door had been left open just an inch or two. It was his way to let her know he wanted her to play him to sleep. She returned to the office, shut down the compy for the night, turned out the lights and moved to the living room, guitar in hand.

 

He lies in the soft darkness and watches moonlight steal into his room when he hears Sarah tune the Martin. She never misses the open door; many a night he's lain here and drifted off while music eases his restless mind. He slips an arm behind his head and wonders what she'll start with tonight. Her first song is generally a comment on the day's events, usually humorous, but always pertinent.

She strums a few chords, and then starts a rhythm that teases at him. The song clicks into place a second or two before she begins to sing, her soft alto clear and bright. She doesn't often choose Dylan; at first he's confused, but as she winds her way through the first verse he begins to understand. She offers him a benison, a blessing as he begins a new journey. It is something he would never accept face to face, but here in the quiet dark with enough safe distance between them she can say what she wants to say, and knows he will listen and maybe take in what she says.

In the simple lyric is every word of encouragement, support, and faith never given in a lifetime of failed attempts. The woman who sings them is fully as damaged as he is, but she's learned, still learns to transcend her pain and extend the gift of healing. She has helped him begin a strong foundation, built stone by stone on the bedrock of one person's true affection for and belief in him. It is slow and hazardous work, but she stands with him, willing to share the disappointments and difficult labor as well as the times of joy and peace. Somehow, in some way he will never understand, he has been blessed far beyond any small merit he might possess, simply by her decision that he's worth her time and attention. It is an insight as luminous as the moonlight beams across his bed. He finds comfort in it as he settles into sleep, and listens to Sarah's soft voice repeat the chorus.

_August 16th_

When the alarm goes off his initial groggy thought is _what the hell, no way am I going in this early, Cuddy will expect me to be on time every damn morning, who set the alarm for this hour?_ By the third repetition he's remembered where he is and what he’ll do today. Tension knots in his stomach as he clambers out of bed and limps to the bathroom for his morning pee and wash up.

It feels strange to wear something besides sweats or cutoffs and tees. He's already decided his usual work attire is good enough for the new job; he did trim his scruff down a bit though, as it had started to verge on actual beard.

When he ventures into the living room with backpack in hand, the smell of fresh coffee leads him into the kitchen. Sarah takes two loaves of zucchini bread out of the oven; the CD player cranks out a Beatles tune and she sings along, as if it's just another summer morning. Then she offers him a cup of coffee and a slice of warm zucchini bread spread with honey butter.

"Sit," she says. "Try to eat if you can."

He sips the coffee and watches as she bustles around, while her gentle alto adds another layer of harmony to the familiar sounds of the Beaty Boys. "What's on the agenda for today?" he asks, just to say something.

"Not much," Sarah says. "Some housework, a call to Gene . . . Laynie's supposed to send me more data if that storm pans out later today in South Dakota. Marti's bringing me some blueberries to trade for a batch of peach jam." She takes a slice of bread for herself. "You know, the usual. High finance, international secrets, governments brought to their knees, et cetera." She sips her tea. "How late will you be working?"

"Five." He can't allow the thought of the next nine and a half hours to enter his mind, or he'll lose his nerve.

"Okay. Roz is coming over tonight, she sent me a text from work." Sarah takes something out of the fridge, a sturdy brown paper bag with the top folded. "There's a good movie on TCM tonight, or we can watch the game if you'd rather. The Phils are playing the Giants, I think." When the next track on the CD player comes up she sings along, unselfconscious as a child, as she rinses utensils in the sink and puts them in the dishwasher. Greg feels his stomach unclench a little. He takes a bite of the zucchini bread; it's delicious, warm and spicy and not too sweet. He manages to finish the slice by the time he has to leave. As he stands up and drinks the last of his coffee, Sarah hands him the sack. He sets his cup aside and opens it. The brown paper crackles under his fingers.

"What's this?" he asks, though he already knows what it is.

"Lunch," Sarah says. "Roast beef and turkey sandwiches, chips, apple, cookies, Coke. Make sure you put it in the fridge when you get there."

He rolls his eyes as he stows the food in his backpack, but secretly he's glad she thought of it; he's used to a workplace where he can stand in a cafeteria line and make someone else pay for his food. "You gonna walk me to the bus too, _Mom_?"

She smiles as she goes to the cupboard and takes down a stainless steel travel mug. "You'll be fine." She fills the mug with coffee, puts in three spoonfuls of sugar and snaps the lid in place before offering it to him. "See you at five. Call me if you need anything."

As he heads for the front hall he hears the mixer start up; she's begun another batch of bread, probably destined for the freezer. Her voice, clear and true, follows him as he steps out on the front porch. Slowly he closes the door behind him and faces the new day, gets out his car keys. It's warm and sunny; a light breeze rustles in the treetops. He stands there for a moment, then grips his cane and takes the first step forward.

' _Forever Young,' Bob Dylan_

' _The Night Before,' the Beatles_


	5. Chapter 5

Greg walks through the doors of the medical center, his fingers clenched tight on the handle of his cane. _New day, new job,_ he thinks, and takes a deep breath as Doctor Wirth approaches him, coffee mug in hand. “Good morning,” she says. She looks much the same as she did when he came in for his interview; she wears khakis and a shabby polo black polo shirt under her lab coat. A stethoscope peeks out of one pocket and there’s a button with the word ‘sexy’ in bright red print on her left lapel. “Let’s get you situated.”

His office looks smaller than ever; still, it’s his own space. Greg sets his backpack on the desk and eases into the chair. It creaks like it’ll fall apart, but doesn’t feel too uncomfortable. He’ll still probably swap it out for an Eames if it looks like he’ll use the office much, though. The desktop is home to a computer monitor, a phone, and a Rolodex. He hasn’t seen that last item in years. When he sits behind the desk, he notices there’s an empty floor-to-ceiling bookcase against the opposite wall and a tall window on his right with blinds. It looks out onto what appears to be the back lawn. The whole thing reminds him of a dorm room, bland and blank.

“Once you’re settled, come into the clinic and we’ll get you started,” Doctor Wirth says. Greg feels his stomach clench. _This is it,_ he thinks.

“I take it we have patients,” he says, and winces. Wirth nods, either oblivious to or willing to ignore the stupidity of his remark.

“One or two. I can supervise you until Doctor Singh gets here at noon. His oldest daughter moved in this past weekend at SUNY Binghamton so he’ll be a little late.” She nods. “See you in a few.”

 _Great. My new boss is going to observe my first attempt at practicing medicine after a year away._ “Okay,” he says aloud. After she leaves he opens his backpack and takes out his lunch, then goes to the lounge. It’s empty, something for which he’s grateful. Greg puts the sack in the fridge (it looks pretty humble nestled in with shiny Tupperware containers and cheerful rainbow-hued totes), and pulls a mug from the drainer by the tiny sink. He pours a sip of coffee from the pot. When it proves to be drinkable he tops off his travel mug, adds more sugar, and tries to put the lid on. But his fingers won’t cooperate; they tremble too much. He stops, closes his eyes as the dread and outright fear he’s pushed away for days now threatens to overwhelm him. He’ll ruin this chance just like he’s ruined everything he’s ever touched, and he’ll never get his license back.

 _You always were a fuckup,_ his father’s voice whispers at the back of his mind. _Never could do anything right. Time to face facts . . . you’ll always be doomed to failure._

Greg takes a deep breath. He’s fairly certain that in this instance Sarah’s counsel is pointless, but he gives her suggestion a try anyway because he needs all the help he can get, spurious or not. “No,” he says aloud. After a moment he manages to snap the lid on the mug and turn away, still afraid but determined to see this day through, no matter what happens. If he wants to continue to use the one true ability he has, there’s no other choice.

When he enters the clinic he finds the entire day shift assembled at the front desk. The sight is almost enough to send him out the door, but he forces himself to move forward until he stands in front of them. He ignores their stares.

“Everyone, this is Doctor Gregory House,” Wirth says. “He’ll be working with us over the next few months. Doctor House, we’ll start from the left. This is our day shift RN, Evelyn Bailey; Maggie Seachrist, Anne Faust . . .”

He ignores the names as unimportant—they’re nurses, after all—and doesn’t bother to acknowledge their nods and tentative smiles.

“Okay,” Wirth says. “Back to work.” She turns to Greg. “Let’s go to the clinic.”

There are indeed two patients ready for examination. One is Gordy, the barber. The other is Chelsea Butterman. She sits on her mother’s lap while Marti talks to a nurse and fills out forms.

“Mister Parker first,” Wirth says. “He’s complaining of shortness of breath.” She hands Greg the file and moves to a corner near the door, where she takes a chair and sits down. He sets the folder on the counter, hooks his cane on the side out of the way and finds a rolling stool. Gordy watches him with the imperturbable calm he always demonstrates when he cuts hair or sits in his chair to read the paper. Greg gives him a nod as he slides over.

“Gimme the story,” he says, and hopes no one can see how much he shakes.

“Little hard to breathe this morning,” Gordy says. There is a noticeable wheeze in his quiet voice. Greg takes his pulse—it’s a bit fast but steady and strong—then listens to his heart. Breathing is the real signal something’s not right; while lung sounds are clear, chest movement is somewhat diminished. The neck and shoulder muscles strain a little, an attempt to compensate for the lack of expansion. As he collects symptoms, Greg feels himself calm down. The pure rote pattern of the familiar task eases his fear somewhat.

“Having problems with itchy ears?” he asks just to cover his bases. He moves to the rack where the otoscope resides. “Any orange wax on your Q-tips?”

Gordy shakes his head. “Trick question. Not supposed to use ‘em for that.”

“Everybody does it. No one wants to admit it,” Greg says. He slips the disposable cover in place, clicks on the light and peers into the older man’s ear. “Sort of like jerking off. Nope, no gold pieces hidden in there,” he says as Gordy gives a slightly breathless chuckle. “Coughing up anything in the morning?”

“Sometimes,” Gordy says. Greg tilts his head.

“Define ‘sometimes’.”

“Some days nothin’ comes out. Other times I get somethin’.” He doesn’t shrug but it’s there in his voice. It’s the truth, too, a happenstance so rare among clinic patients Greg’s dealt with he isn’t quite sure what to make of it. He takes Gordy’s file and flips through the meager paperwork, a collection of basic tests dated four years back and some notes. They show little more than the usual culprits of advancing age—sore joints and muscles, higher BP, borderline cholesterol, and so on. There is nothing here about breathlessness, lack of chest movement or sputum output, although it’s clear to anyone who isn't a complete idiot that this is a condition of long standing, certainly longer than four years. Whoever examined Gordy before this hadn't paid attention to details, and that is a charitable viewpoint indeed.

“Nurse,” he says as he continues to read, “get me someone to administer a lung function test.”

“Doctor . . . ah . . . House.” The nurse gives him a bright smile. “I’m working with Marti.”

“No, you’re headed off to Gossip Central to get another nurse and an LFT meter. You know, weird little thingy with a mouthpiece and a data recorder. I mean the meter, not the nurse.” He lifts his gaze to hers to give her a hard stare. “Now would be a good time, as opposed to, oh, I don’t know, whenever the hell you get around to it.”

Her smile disappears like a shot of Maker’s Mark in a strip club; she stalks off, annoyed and humiliated. Greg knows within five minutes his reputation as a jerk will spread far and wide. Might as well get it established now, it’ll save time and trouble later, he knows from long experience. He tosses the file on the counter and turns back to Gordy. “I have a pretty good idea what the problem is,” he says. “This test should confirm it.”

“You’ll give it to me straight?” Gordy says. He looks a little anxious for the first time. “Don’t want no BS.”

“You won’t need a shovel,” Greg says as the nurse returns with another nurse and a meter, as well as a laptop on a rolling cart. He moves to the second exam bay where Marti and Chelsea wait, then turns to the nurses, who watch him as if he has two heads. “What are you waiting for, a goddamn bus? Get busy. You,” he says to the first nurse, “come with me. You,” he glares at the second nurse, “I want results on that LFT now, not next year!”

The second nurse mutters something under her breath and starts to set up the test as Greg rolls in to face Marti and Chelsea. The first nurse trails behind him. “What’s up?” he asks as he eyes the little girl. She’s snuggled against her mother, her little face flushed and eyes closed.

“I’m not sure,” Marti says. She looks concerned but not freaked out. “She’s been really quiet and she’s got a temperature.”

Greg sighs. “Three guesses.”

Marti looks puzzled. “Beg pardon?”

“Any complaints of headaches? Her, not you,” he says. Marti nods. “Just so you know, what happens next is a mere formality and not me turning into Chester the Molester. Show me her belly.”

Sure enough, there they are—small flat red spots well on their way to becoming small raised red spots. “ _Varicella_ , also known as pox of the chicken variety. I’m presuming everyone’s been exposed,” Greg says. He doesn’t look at Wirth.

“We’re all good but I’ll make sure anyway, just in case,” she says, and goes to the wall phone to call the nurse’s station. Greg swivels back to Marti, who looks relieved and embarrassed at the same time.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Chelsea’s my first child and I didn’t . . . haven’t . . .” She stops. “What do I do?”

“The usual routine. Chicken liver smoothies, sleeping with hedgehogs, don’t spare the ketchup baths.” The first nurse emits a reluctant chuckle while Marti gives him a bewildered look. He relents with a sigh. “No one appreciates my wit. Confirm it with Wirth, but she should tell you to administer children’s Tylenol and plenty of liquids. Don’t let the kid scratch unless she wants lots of interesting craters to show her date in the back seat of the family car ten years from now.”

To his surprise Marti offers him a small smile. “Thanks, Gr—Doctor House. I appreciate your bearing with my ignorance.” She surprises him into silence with her graciousness—another anomaly, completely unlike the humorless dweebs he dealt with at PPTH’s free clinic. As she gets up to follow the first nurse out of the room with Chelsea still cradled in her arms, Greg hears the second nurse say  

“Now take a really deep breath and blow on three—one two THREEEEE, good, that’s it . . . keep going . . . keep going . . . a little more . . . keep going . . . good. Okay. Rest for a few minutes and we’ll do it again.”

When Greg rolls in Gordy has just finished a hard cough as he holds onto the chair. “You’ve had chickenpox?” Greg asks. Gordy manages a nod.

“Damn,” he croaks when he’s able to speak. He sits back and wipes his eyes. “Damn.”

“How’s it going?” Greg asks quietly.

“Tight . . . chest.”

“Pain with it?” He comes forward and listens to Gordy’s heart. The beat’s fast but still strong, no threadiness or murmur.

Gordy shakes his head. “More like . . . rubber band.”

“Okay. You’ll do this once more, twice if you can manage it.” He starts to move away, only to have Gordy stop him with a simple question.

“What is it?”

“You’ll have to cut out those late nights pole dancing at Lou’s,” he says, which earns him a wheezy chuckle and more coughing. He waits until the older man is able to catch his breath. “Sorry. COPD, most likely emphysema.” Greg glances at Gordy, then away. “Smoker?”

Gordy sighs. “Back in the day . . . not a chimney like some. Quit thirty years ago.”

Greg nods. “That’s a large point in your favor.” He falls silent as the nurse comes back in. She gives him a steely look as she hands the nose clip and the PFT meter to Gordy and has him repeat the test. By the end of it he’s purple. The nurse offers him oxygen but he pushes it away.

“Ain’t dyin’ yet,” he growls, and looks at Greg. “Well, doc?”

“Here’s a shocker. Your lung function sucks,” Greg says. “COPD for sure.” He resists the automatic urge to dig deeper; this is a classic case of emphysema, no zebras here. He’s already checked for weird or out-of-place symptoms, and there are none.

“What about the shop? Can I keep workin’?”

“Yeah, but no more huffing AquaNet.” Greg tosses the LFT printout on the counter atop the file. “You need a physical, bloodwork and a chest x-ray to get your file up to date, and a flu shot. You’ll also need checkup visits every six months for the rest of your life.”

“How bad’s it gonna get?” Gordy takes a tissue from the box next to him and spits into it. Before he can throw it away Greg holds out his hand.

“Gimme.” He opens the crumpled tissue and inspects the contents. “No blood, that’s good. Ever hocked up anything with red, brown or black in it?” Gordy shakes his head. Greg gives him back the tissue. “I predict you’re not going to kick off any time soon unless you visit downtown Manhattan tomorrow and don’t look both ways before crossing the avenue. See the receptionist to book a date for an exam and tell Wirth you need a scrip for an inhaler, the stuff that starts with the letter 'albuterol’.”

“Thanks, doc.” Gordy gets to his feet, a bit shaky. He manages to put his jacket on without a problem though. “Next time you come in the cut’s on me.” He smiles just a little, but his blue eyes are shadowed now. “Make it soon, you’re lookin’ kinda shaggy.”

Greg is surprised into a chuckle as the older man leaves the bay. Without meaning to he runs a hand over what’s left of his hair and finds Gordy’s right, he’s in dire need of a trim. _Small towns,_ he thinks, and turns to face the next customer, an older woman with a pain in her lower back.

So it goes through the morning, a slow, steady trickle of patients with common complaints or problems. It should drive him completely insane, the runny noses and boils on butts and weird rashes; truth be told, he can feel a large part of him tug at the bars of the cage, ready to flee this mundane routine. But another part of him knows he has to stay right where he is, because this is what he has to do to regain what he’s lost through his own stupidity. A year ago he couldn’t have done this, he would have fled out of state before he even started the job; now he thinks maybe there’s an outside chance he’ll make it . . . if he doesn’t die of ennui first, or spontaneously combust.

The next thing he knows Wirth pops her head around the corner and says “You big city types ever take a break for lunch? It’s noon-thirty.” As she walks with him to the lounge she says “I don’t think you need me hanging over your shoulder. Sandesh will be here for the afternoon, but even if he wasn’t coming in you’d be fine on your own. Come and see me a little before five and we’ll go over the cases you’ve dealt with.” With that she heads off to her cramped office, lab coat a-flap, files tucked under her arm. Greg watches her go, and a slight smile tugs at his mouth. Visually Wirth is as unlike Cuddy as chalk is from cheese, but they both walk with a certain purpose and determination he thinks might be a trait inherent in an administrator’s DNA.

Twenty minutes later Greg’s in the lounge sacked out in a recliner as he listens to Muddy Waters on his iPod and munches a roast beef sandwich. He’s almost done when Roz comes in. She wears her work uniform—blue jumpsuit and boots, her bobbed hair brushed back and held in place with a headband. It is hideously unflattering, and yet somehow that doesn’t matter. He pulls out an ear bud. “Hey,” he says. She comes closer, leans down and gives him a kiss, then perches on the arm of the chair and takes a bite from what’s left of his sandwich. “Hey!”

“Mmm,” she says, and licks her lips. Her moss-green eyes are full of laughter. “How’s your first day going?”

“Things were better before you showed up to steal my lunch,” he grumbles. She kisses the top of his head. He catches a whiff of her—dust, some kind of industrial oil and her own scent, warm and clean—and cops a feel at the precise moment someone walks into the lounge. It’s the Indian doctor, Singh. He sees them and proceeds to the coffeemaker without hesitation.

“The new guy gets the sweetest girl in town,” he says, and takes a mug from the drainer. “Dammit, life is so unfair. Hey Roz.”

“Hey Sandesh,” Roz says. “You got Sally moved in okay?”

“Yes, thank god. One out the door and two more to go. Sooner or later we’ll run out of yard apes, here’s hoping.” He sips his coffee and heads for the door. “See you at the battlefront, newbie.”

When he’s gone Roz picks up his iPod and flicks through the songs, then chooses a Beatles tune. “Dance with me,” she says. Greg glares at her.

“Trying to eat my lunch in peace and quiet here."

“You’ve got a whole hour to do that. I only have fifteen minutes to forget a really shitty morning,” she says. Greg pauses before he takes a last bite of sandwich. She sounds like she means what she says. He glances up at her. She smiles down at him, but she looks tired and more than a little dispirited.

“Ask Singh,” he says. Roz rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, ‘cause I really want to dance with a happily married geeky guy with three kids. I’m asking _you_. You know, the happily unmarried tall handsome guy with no kids that I know of,” she says. “Please?”

“We could do some horizontal dancing right here,” he says, and waggles his eyebrows at her. Roz sighs and removes his hand from her breast.

“Never mind.” She kisses his cheek, a soft brush of her lips over his stubble, before she stands up. “See you later.”

He lets her get all the way to the door before he says “Hey.” She stops but doesn’t turn to look at him. “You’ll be helping Sarah with supper tonight, from what I hear.”

She nods once, then disappears. He lies back in the recliner, lunch forgotten for the moment, and moves from the sentimental track Roz chose back to Muddy Waters. Still, he can’t help but close his eyes and picture a dance with her . . . and understands too late what she’d really asked for. He feels a sting of regret and pushes it away, annoyed.

Greg’s in the clinic once more some forty minutes later. He sits back and twiddles his thumbs while Singh goes off to harass a nurse for some paperwork error or other. As he waits he remembers the B-Rad stowed in his pocket. He pulls it out and gives it a quick couple of riffs, warms the reeds with his breath. Then he begins to play, lets the chords take him where they will. The sound echoes in the small room, bright and sweet and somehow reassuring. He might be stuck here, but he’s got his tunes with him. Anyway, the new harp Sarah bought him is beyond amazing. He bends a note and then sets it free, eyes closed as music carries him away.

He comes to an end finally and is jerked back to reality by the sound of applause. “You really wail on that thing,” Singh says from the doorway. Greg blinks.

“Uh,” he says, tries for a witty remark and gets  _bubkes_. “Thanks.”

“ _De nada_.” Singh plops down on a rolling stool. “I’m a drummer, myself. Earned a little extra money in med school that way.”

Greg’s interest quickens. “Prove it."

Within two minutes he watches Singh play a collection of canisters and boxes with a pair of tongue depressors. It’s pretty clear the guy didn’t lie; his foot even pumps a non-existent bass drum pedal. He’s good, maybe even better than good. When he stops Greg sits back, arms folded. “Yeah, but do you know ‘Melancholy Baby’?” he says. Singh laughs and tosses the tongue depressors into the air, catches them and does a roll on a container of cotton swabs.

“Give me a few bars,” he says, and they jam together until the next patient arrives, a young guy who looks a little startled to see two doctors in an impromptu concert in the clinic bay.  

As the afternoon goes by Greg gets a chance to spend some time in his office. He makes mental notes on what he’s going to bring with him tomorrow. It feels kinda good to have his own space, no matter how temporary. Still, he is weirded out by how smoothly things have gone to this point. It’s not natural for workplaces to run this way, even on the first day. He’s watched the nurses flirt and joke around with Singh, heard them laugh and talk at the station; even Wirth throws out a joke or smart remark occasionally . . . it’s bizarre how well everyone gets along with each other. Greg has no doubt his disruptive presence will change all that, as it always does.

Near the end of his shift he treats a little girl for a splinter in her big toe and her older brother for a sprained ankle. By their own account they jumped out of a haymow. Greg can’t believe anyone even knows what that word means, but apparently here in farm country they still do.

“What kind of idiots jump down onto a hard floor?” he asks, as he watches a nurse--Faust, he remembers her vaguely from the introduction--wrap the boy’s ankle with an Ace bandage. She’s good at it, her overlaps exactly wide enough, the bandage neither too tight or too loose. The boy shrugs.

“We do it all the time,” he says. “The hay on the floor just got pushed apart too much. Do I get crutches? That would be so cool.”

A little before five Greg goes to Wirth’s office, files in hand. He’s dreaded this all day. She’s sits at her desk, hunched over the keyboard of her computer. He comes forward, dumps the files on her desk and waits for the interrogation to begin. She glances at them, then at him.

“Any trouble?”

“Depends on your definition,” he counters. She chuckles.

“Point taken.” She sits back. “This was a fairly typical day. Sometimes it’s a lot quieter, other times we’re busy as hell.” She picks up the files and places them next to her keyboard. “I’ll review these later, but I don’t anticipate any problems. It’s no surprise that you’re an excellent doctor.” She looks at him then. “As long as patient care isn’t compromised and no hospital property is destroyed, you can do what you like to keep boredom to a minimum. Just remember, nurses have elephant’s memories and any messes you make, you clean up.” She turns back to her keyboard. “See you tomorrow.”

Five minutes later he pulls out of the parking lot with Barbarella’s sound system on full blast. The afternoon is warm and sunny, late summer at its finest. He heads for home and enjoys the feeling of mingled freedom and relief. He survived his first day and carved eight links off his chain in the process.

 _Still plenty of time to screw things up_ , his father’s voice whispers. _Still lots of opportunities to blow this chance wide open._

“No,” he says aloud. “No, I don’t think so.” It sounds stupid and foolish to negate what some part of him knows will still happen, but what the hell, it’s worth a try.

He takes the scenic route home and lets Barbarella’s throaty purr ease his mind and settle his thoughts. It is later rather than sooner when he arrives at home and parks the car off to the side. As he walks through the front door, he smells fried bacon and hears the sound of pans clatter and conversation, mundane and somehow welcoming. He stands there and takes it all in. Sarah says something and someone laughs—Roz. Greg grips the handle of his cane. He plans to dance with her after dinner, when Sarah’s in the office for her nightly phone call to Gene, and evening advances across the clear blue sky. It’s not an apology, just delayed timing. _Better late than never,_ he thinks, and moves forward.


	6. Chapter 6

_August 23rd_

"I need a garage." Greg doesn't look at Sarah when he says this. He just stows rinsed plates in the dishwasher as she hands them to him.

"I see. Your bedroom isn't big enough?" She keeps a straight face, but he can sense her amusement.

"For Barbarella. The Chevelle," he says when she doesn't comment. "I kinda promised Mister Goodwrench I'd have a place to keep her." He wishes he hadn't started this conversation; he sounds like an idiot.

"Okay. Well, you could take a look at the old horse barn at the back end of our property," Sarah says. "Gene keeps the mower and the brush hog in there, but there's plenty of room for a car." She gives him a bundle of silverware. "Just so you know, you get to clear the path in the winter. No way am I shoveling that much snow." She dries her hands on her apron. "Barbarella?"

"She's a sixty-eight," Greg says. Sarah laughs.

"Perfect." She glances at him, her eyes bright with humor and affection, a look he's come to know, maybe even rely on now. "It's a straight shot. The path is pretty level, but you might want to take the bike."

He has visions of his frozen carcass under a huge mound of snow come January. "Just how far back is this thing?"

Sarah unties her apron and hangs it on its hook next to the mudroom door. "Not that far, but you’d better start now while you've still got light enough to ride by."

"D'oh! Now see that, you're cracking a joke as a cover to get me out of your kitchen so you can pack me a disgustingly healthy lunch and put a 'mommy wuves you' note in it without me finding out." He rolls his eyes. "That's just so beneath you as my analyst."

"Have to get my cheap thrills somewhere." She holds up a hand before he can reply. "Don't even bother. Save it for your girlfriend." Her tart words are softened by her smile and the light-as-air pat she gives his shoulder. Maybe he even counts on that too.

The shadows of twilight creep across the garden when Greg starts up the bike. He goes down the drive to the right side of the property as it faces the lane, then turns along the fence that divides the Goldmans land from the woodlot Bob owns. There is indeed a track here; he's noticed it before but never bothered to explore. He's not much on long walks any more. Slowly he follows the swales cut deep in the soil, past the back yard and to the end of the clearing. The trees are thinned out a bit here; the last of the sunlight reaches through the climax forest canopy to spark new growth. A few birds flit overhead, ready to settle in for the night. Aside from the purr of the bike's motor it's quiet, almost silent, and a little eerie.

The barn is easy to see once he’s in the trees. As Greg approaches he can tell it's about the size of a roomy two-car garage, with a big track door and a window or two along the side. It looks like it's in decent shape aside from lack of paint, with no missing boards or broken glass. He pulls to a stop in front of it, turns off the motor, puts down the kickstand and eases from the bike.

The door is a little stubborn, but opens finally. It dislodges a quantity of dust and disturbs some swallows. The interior is relatively neat, clean and almost empty except for the two mowers, and some odds and ends. He steps inside and moves to the center of the space, does a slow, careful turn to take it all in. There's plenty of room in here for the Chevelle—hell, he can keep the bike here too, which will be easier on his wallet than storage. Still, he’ll either have to get a snow-blower or hire someone to plow out the track . . . He looks around for a light switch and spots one by the door. When he flips it, two bulbs in the rafters come on. They're up a good thirty feet and provide almost no illumination. Greg stares at them. He hadn't realized how tall the structure is. He returns his gaze to ground level, makes a rough estimate of floor space. Something pops into his mind, just a flash of imagination or wishful thinking, but he sees himself with the Gibson or maybe the Stratocaster, the amp cranked loud enough to make him blissful as he plays to his heart's content. There's a heater and a cooler full of beer and a comfortable chair . . . just him, his ax and the aloneness he's always preferred when it comes to his music.

He leaves the barn, shuts the door, perches on the bike, hauls out his phone and hits speed dial.

"Hey," Roz says after a moment or two. She sounds pleased, a little sleepy. "What's up?"

"Got a project for you," he says. "Outbuilding in good shape with minimal wiring and no heat, about fifty by thirty by thirty. What if I wanted two amp service and a forced air heater put in before winter?"

"And I thought you liked me because I could sing," she says. Humor adds a sweet lilt to her wry, dark voice.

He shifts a little on the seat, impatient with her teasing. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Is it doable?"

"Well . . . sure it's doable, depending on location and the wiring that's there. How minimal?"

"Two light bulbs," he says. "Forty watt, I think."

"Wow, you weren't kidding. At least there are two," she says but he hears a smile in her voice. "Want me to come out and take a look at it?"

He's about to say yes when he realizes twilight has fallen. "Too dark. Tomorrow, after work."

"We're having dinner at Poppi's tomorrow night, remember?" she chides him gently. His gut tightens.

"Damn," he mutters under his breath.

"I heard that," Roz says. "Greg, if you don't want to come over it's all right, but sooner or later Poppi's going to want to sit down and talk with you about us. Might as well make it sooner."

He wants to say _there is no us,_ but that's not true. "I noticed there isn't a vote for not in a million years."

"Hey, I'm just telling you how it is," she says. "Take it or leave it. Either way is fine by me."

"You're suspiciously mellow," he says, intrigued. "You finished off that bottle of _pinot_ _grigio_ all by yourself."

"No, I fell asleep on the couch." He can hear music in the background—the tv, probably. "Long day."

"Define long."

Roz sighs. "Five to six. Anything else, Italian grandma?"

"But that's only one hour," he feels compelled to point out. "You could spend half an hour in a fifteen-minute coffee break and the other fifteen minutes doing whatever it is electricians do when they're not drinking coffee."

"Uh, hate to tell you, math genius, but that leaves fifteen minutes open," she says in that sardonic way of hers that's the aural equivalent of fine bittersweet chocolate, dark and delicious. He tastes it with all the enjoyment of a true gourmet.

"Well . . . next time I could use up those open minutes," he says. "Five to get the clothes off, five to put them back on after whatever we do for the five in between. Call me, okay? I'm available any time, no cover charge."

"I know this will ruin your little fantasy, but I was on the clock from five a.m. to six _p_.m.," she says. "Which is actually thirteen hours, not one. Thought I'd point that out, I’m petty that way."

"You're working too much because you think if you do, you'll earn the respect and approval of the people around you," he says, irritated with her now. "All it's going to accomplish is you asleep on your feet and everyone expecting you to keep doing more and more. When are you going to stand up to that idiot boss of yours?"

"When I stop getting nice fat paychecks," she says. "You're just mad because I didn't come by to see you at lunchtime today."

"Yeah, I really miss you stealing half my sandwich," he grumbles.

"Sarah packs two for you," she says with a soft laugh. "And you're probably conning Doctor Singh into buying junk out of the vending machine, so don't tell me you're starving."

"He's weighed down with loose change," Greg says. "I'm doing him a favor."

"Such a cheapskate," she laughs. "How about I bring you lunch tomorrow?"

He perks up at the thought. " _Calzone_ and a cold beer."

"You're treating patients. _Calzone_ and a cold Coke," she says. "If you want to add booze to it from the personal stash in your office, that's your lookout. Coming by tonight?"

"No, because you're going to bed and you won't let me join you," he says. "Otherwise I'd say yes."

"I'm sure you would." Her voice softens. "'night, _amante._ See you tomorrow."

_August 24th_

Roz slid out of the truck and picked up the bag, snagged the six-pack of Coke with her little finger, and headed for the front door of the center. The day was gorgeous, with a clear sky and soft breezes.

"The sun is up, the sky is blue/it's beautiful and so are you/dear Prudence," she sang, but softly so no one could hear her, even though she was alone in the parking lot. She thought of Greg and smiled, then dared to sing a little louder. “Dear Prudence, let me see you smile/dear Prudence, like a little child . . .”

It felt strange to walk in and not be in need of help. She waved at Doctor Singh and headed for the back, where the employee breakroom was located. "Save me a _calzone_ ," Singh called as she passed. She gave him a thumbs-up and continued on her way.

Greg was in the recliner. He watched ESPN-2 while his mp-three player blasted. At her entrance he turned his head. "About time you got here," he said. Roz pulled a Coke off the six-pack and tossed it to him. He fielded it with that deft grace she'd come to know well, and tucked it between the arm of the chair and his left thigh. "What about the rest of it?"

"Oh, you mean one of these?" She drew a _calzone_ out of the bag and held it up. Greg gave her a disgusted look.

"Uh—me here, food there," he said, heavy on the sarcasm. Roz walked toward him, the _calzone_ and bag in hand. When she reached the chair he watched her, his eyes bright with mingled annoyance, suspicion and amusement.

"Magic word?" she said sweetly. Greg's brows lowered.

"Fucking _now_ ," he growled. Roz laughed and put the sandwich in his hand, set the bag atop his knees, then stole a kiss, unable to resist. When she felt his hand slide up her back and come to rest on her neck she savored his touch.

She took a few minutes to munch a _calzone_ with him. She didn’t really care if they talked or not, she just enjoyed his company. Greg was often prickly, harsh and rude, but over the months they'd known each other she'd grown accustomed to his ways. She understood his manner better. He pissed her off on a regular basis and probably always would, but now it didn’t really seem to matter that much. Besides, there were compensations . . . like his big hand on her hip, as he held her close to him.

"Not going to nag me about tomorrow night?" he said a few minutes before she had to leave.

"No," she said, and licked some sauce from her finger.

"You're unnatural," he said. "Most women would gloat over the chance to make a man miserable." He tipped his head back and watched her. "Come on, tell me why you aren’t harassing me about this."

Roz swigged some Coke. "If I have to push you into meeting Poppi, it's pointless," she said. "Either you are willing to come to dinner, or you're not."

"The dinner part I don't have a problem with," he said. "It's the talking that's got me worried."

"Poppi won't interrogate you, but he might ask some personal stuff." She opted for truth over platitudes. Greg didn't answer, but Roz felt him withdraw as surely as if he'd pulled away from her physically. She resisted the urge to comfort him; it would only make things worse. She stood up preparatory to leaving, only to have her hand caught in his. He tugged her gently downward and kissed her.

"Get home at a reasonable hour," he said when the kiss ended. "I won't wait dinner on you again tonight." His touch on her cheek belied his caustic tone. Roz turned her head and kissed his palm.

"I'll try," she said. "No promises."

"Hmph." He let her go and turned back to the game. Roz took a _calzone_ from the bag on the table and put his Cokes in the fridge, then slipped out quietly. She didn’t look back. If she did she'd want to curl up next to Greg and stay there, and she had another job to check out and a trip to the supply store an hour's ride one way to accomplish before the end of work today.

As she passed the nurse's station Roz put the _calzone_ in Sandesh’s hand.

"Ah, you're a good woman," he said, and gave her a wide smile, his dark eyes full of humor. "That hirsute beast had best appreciate you or I'll trade in my old model and take you home."

Roz laughed. "Yeah, right. Enjoy," she said, and ignored the speculative looks sent her way by the nurse behind the station desk. She went out into the sunny day, to delight in the warmth on her back as she crossed the parking lot.

' _Dear Prudence', the Beatles_


	7. Chapter 7

_August 25th_

Greg pulls the car into the drive, puts it in park and lets it idle for a moment. He's still got time to leave; this isn't a done deal, he can pretend he never had any reason to go out this evening. He could be at home with the game on tv and a cold beer in hand . . .

After a moment he shuts off the motor and opens the door, aware that as he stands here he is in clear view from the front door of the house. Sure enough, as he limps up the walk Roz comes to meet him. He's always liked the fact that while she’s happy to give him a kiss or put a hand on his arm, she's not effusive or overly demonstrative. She proves this admirable quality yet again when she comes up to him and presses a light kiss to his lips, a flash of sweetness so fleeting he wants to pull her back for more.

"Hey," she says, and tilts her head. "Great timing, dinner's ready." They proceed up the sidewalk together, her steps matched with his.

"I knew there was a reason why I decided to show up."

"Free food is hard to beat," she says. "Hope you're hungry."

In fact his stomach is tied in so many knots he doesn't think he'll ever eat again, but all he says is "What's for dinner?"

"Steak pizzaiola, baked mac and cheese and steamed broccoli raab with garlic," Roz says. A couple of knots untie themselves.

"Sounds good," he says for lack of any other comment. Roz nods.

"It is. Poppi made it," she says, and gives him another kiss before they go up the steps. This exchange is longer, more satisfying, and he relaxes a little more. Then they go into the house.

It's a nice place—nothing fancy, no clutter or dust-catchers, just a simple home filled with comfortable, well-used furniture, a few pictures and photos, a bookcase stocked with classic fiction, and plenty of natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air is laden with the delicious smell of a good meal.

"Poppi's in the kitchen," Roz says. "We'll eat there tonight, he has to get back to the restaurant soon."

Lou stands at the range enveloped in a white apron. He puts steaks on a platter, and looks more approachable somehow this way. He nods at Greg. "Have a seat."

Soon enough they all sit at the table and fill their plates. A radio plays in the background; it sounds like big band jazz, smooth and mellow. The ambience is similar to Sarah's kitchen, relaxed and informal, with just a touch of something more masculine, more reserved.

"How's the new job?" Lou asks after they've had a chance to sample the food. The knots in Greg's stomach tighten.

"Clinic work isn't my first, second or even last choice," he says. "But it fills up my day all the same."

Lou nods. "Never pegged you for a GP," he says. "You're a Maserati doing a milk run." He cuts a slice of steak. "But sometimes you do what you have to in order to get what you want."

Greg throws a hard stare at Roz. She gives a slight shake of her head, looks troubled; she didn't tell her grandfather anything, if Greg interprets that expression correctly. "An astute observation," he says out loud.

"I pay attention," Lou says. "I'm fairly sure you do as well."

To Greg's relief the conversation turns to more general topics. He manages a few bites of food and listens to Roz and Lou talk. There's an ease, a quiet affection that was never evident at any meal he ever ate with his own parents. Lou doesn't speak down to Roz, and while she is sometimes cheeky with Lou, she doesn't show disrespect. They exchange bits of information about neighbors and coworkers; Roz recounts her day in a way that is both amusing and devoid of any indication that she worked hard, long hours in less than ideal conditions. In return Lou offers a few brief stories about the restaurant and before that, his days as a _sommelier_ in training.

"I find it hard to believe you have no regrets," Greg says after the final anecdote. "You gave up a high-powered dream to live here in obscurity when you could have had a big life."

"Of course I have regrets," Lou says. "Most people do. Coming home to raise my Rosa, that's not one of them."

"You're not even a teensy bit resentful of her taking away your dream. Impressive." Greg sits back with a glass of wine in hand.

"She didn't take away my dream," Lou says. "I chose to raise her. All things considered, I think I made the right choice." He gives Greg a calm, steady look. "Some people in this town like to believe the worst about my granddaughter. I know they're wrong to do so. I hope you know that too."

Greg stares down at his plate. "Their loss, my considerable gain," he says. After a moment Roz's hand comes to rest on top of his. Her slender, work-worn fingers stroke his gently, then ease away.

"I have to get back to work," Lou says, and puts his napkin on the table as he rises. "I'll clean up when I get home," he says to Roz, who shakes her head.

"No you won't, you'll be asleep on your feet by then." She stands and walks over to give Lou a hug. " _Ti voglio bene,_ " she says, and kisses his cheek. "Don't work too hard."

"You should follow your own advice, _bambina_." He returns her embrace, lets her go and looks at Greg. "Take good care of her." Then he's gone, as he slips away in near-silence out the back door.

They clean up the kitchen. Well, actually Roz does most of the work while Greg sits at the table and drinks his wine while he watches her move back and forth, dishes put to soak as she clears out the drainer to make room for new arrivals. It is a charming domestic scene, as mundane and normal as things can be, and for some reason it scares him. In fact all of this normal routine frightens him deeply: things are good at work, he's got a girl, he's actually had dinner with said girl's grandfather and been accepted without questions, interrogations, arguments, lectures, finger-pointing. These people don't know him, the _real_ him, the inadequate, vindictive loser his parents, his coworkers and even a friend or two have had to put up with for years. "I can't do this," he says, and adds a silent curse. He hadn't meant to speak aloud. Roz pauses as she puts a colander on the counter. She turns to face him, a dish towel thrown over one shoulder.

"Why?"

"I don't know!" he snaps, though that’s a lie. His life has changed so much over the course of the last year as to be unrecognizable, and now he's just been given charge of someone else's happiness. It's too much, it's a responsibility he doesn't want and can't handle. He can barely take care of himself—he's still in his analyst’s home because he isn't capable of life on his own at this point.

Roz stands at the sink. After a moment she pulls the towel from her shoulder and tosses it on the drainer. She comes over and sits at the table, and faces him. "Poppi's old-fashioned in a couple of ways," she says. "He thinks women need a man to watch over them. Well, here’s one who doesn’t." She puts her hands on the table, palms down. One thumb overlaps the other. The slight muscles in her arms ripple under smooth sun-browned skin. "I can take care of myself. You don't have to do that for me, now or ever."

"There's more to it," he says. "I . . . I don't do relationships. If you'd had the chance to talk with anyone I worked with in Princeton they would have told you, I'm not capable of anything remotely resembling a healthy emotional bond. There’s been some debate over whether my genetics are fully human."

"I don't care what your ex-coworkers have to say," Roz says.

"You should." He can't look at her. "You think you know me," he says under his breath. "You think you've seen everything there is to see . . . you haven't seen anything that's real. Anything that's me. If you had—" He stops, makes himself go on. "If you had, you’d steal my car and drive till you hit ocean."

She smacks the table hard with her palms. Greg flinches, startled by the noise and the display of temper. "That’s not true," Roz says. Her tone is quiet, but he can hear the anger in it and cringes. He's screwed things up and he can't seem to stop—same old story. So much for saying no to the voices in his head; it's useless.

"Right," he says, and injects a strong note of skepticism in that one word. This is pure bravado now, though Roz doesn't know him well enough to understand that. "Then you should remember I told you I left Princeton because my cheese slipped off my cracker. I was a hammer short of a toolbox, a few bricks shy of a load-"

"I get it," she says. "But why a mental hospital? Why not just go into therapy?"

"I held differential diagnostic sessions with my best friend's dead girlfriend and hallucinated having sex with my boss." He offers a slight smile. “Hijinks courtesy long-term narcotics addiction.” He doesn't bother to mention the fact that it wasn't the narcotics that caused the breakdown, but the year of loss after loss, until at last his brain called time and threw a hissy fit. 

To his surprise she isn't stunned, shocked, disgusted, but then maybe he doesn't know her well enough to read her with that much accuracy. Instead she leans forward a little, her gaze intent on his. "No way. There's more to it than that."

"You don't know what you're talking about." He sits back.

"Yeah, I do. I lived with an addict for a long time. My mother used, but she didn't see things," Roz says. "She didn't hallucinate. Why did you?"

"I don't know," he says. There is a brief silence. Then Roz says,

"You're lying."

"Fuck you." He winces inside even as he says it. Roz's eyes narrow and for a moment he thinks she'll lose her temper, but she doesn't.

"There's a lot more to this story, but either you don't trust me enough to tell me all of it, or you want to withhold information because it suits your purposes. Maybe both, I don't know." She withdraws her hands and folds her arms. "Well, I have news for you. You can tell me or you can never say another word. I'm good either way."

"Because you already know," he says. "You looked up my information."

"Well, yeah. In the spring when I started working on the office I googled you," Roz says. "I was curious. All I found was a few hits on your practice in Princeton and some of the papers you've published in a Wikipedia entry. There was some weird-ass advice page that came up too, but that's it." She looks away for a moment. “Didn’t know you were world-famous,” she says softly.

"No, I mean the files on Sarah's laptop," he says. "She wrote her case notes in Middle Egyptian but she has a translation key and you found it."

Roz looks confused. "I—Middle Egyptian? What the hell are you talking about?"

"All this time you've known the truth. You knew, and decided to get closer for some reason."

"You think I would break into Sarah's confidential files to get dirt on you?" She's a little pale now, but her voice is still steady.

"Come on, keep up!" he snaps. "You're way behind. I'm already working out why you went from hating me to playing the big tease. I think you got bored with the available male population and decided I was hard up enough to work out for you, to keep you entertained."

Roz is silent for a few moments, and then she says simply, "No."

"Your mouth says no, but your actions say yes."

"I would never betray your trust or Sarah's that way," she says, and tilts her head. "But you have, haven't you? You did it to someone else. Cheaters think everyone else cheats."

Her insight scares him; he lashes out to stop her. "So even you've finally realized everything I've told you matters after all. About time."

To his surprise she looks away. "Ahah," she says. "I get it."

"What?" he growls, thrown off his stride again.

"You tell me I'm a liar and insult me, and do your best to convince me you're a complete shit so I'll get angry and walk away. That way you can crawl back into your hidey-hole and pretend none of this is happening and you won’t have to deal with anything besides work and being alone." She has tears in her eyes, but they don't fall. "It won't work. You know damn well I didn't break into Sarah's files." She leans forward once more. "Gotcha."

Greg stares at her like she's an oncoming train. _Dammit._ "I take it your mother used this technique."

"No, she wouldn't be bothered to work this hard to push me away. She doesn't care enough to put in that much effort. Which means you _do_ care." Roz looks away. "You don't want to hurt me, so . . . you hurt me. Maybe somewhere in an alternate universe that makes sense, but I still kind of understand why you did it."

"You don't understand anything about me," he snaps at her. "You've got some stupid crush because I'm fucked up and you think you can heal me. The love of a good woman, _amor vincit omnia,_ blah blah." He puts extra venom in his words just because he can.

"You keep saying that and then you hurt me just to prove that you really are fucked up," Roz says. "If I pulled a stunt like that you'd be the first to tell me that's a fine example of a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"It's a factual prediction based on something I like to call, uh, let me see, _fact_ ," he says. "Something you wouldn't understand and couldn't handle even if someone gave you the Complete Idiot's Guide to Comprehending Simple Truths."

"Oh balls _,_ Greg!" Roz says sharply. The irritation in her voice pulls him up short. "Tell me about your past then, if you have to! Tell me whatever damn thing is on your mind! I can take it." She sits back and folds her arms. "Do your worst. I triple dog dare you, you big coward."

No one has ever said that to him. Stacy stood up to him on occasion, Wilson’s pontificated, Cuddy’s blustered and negotiated, but not like this; Roz really means it. He stares at her. She stares back and says nothing. _Fine_ , he thinks, _you asked for it,_ and remembers a night some time ago when another young woman made a similar statement, though in less absolute terms.

"You live your life in fear," he begins after a brief silence. "All those sharp pointy spines, all that armor, you use them to keep people away. You hurt them before they hurt you, because in your experience almost everyone hurts you—better safe than sorry. But when you do finally let someone in, you expect them to hurt you too. And when they inevitably do, you push them out and close up your shields and congratulate yourself on being right again, because it's easier to be right than it is to trust someone." He doesn't lower his gaze. "It makes you look stupid, and that's a shame. You're not stupid. But you might as well be."

"And yet I'm an idiot for wanting to trust you," she says. A tear slips down her cheek, but she doesn't acknowledge it. Neither does he, not out loud, but he sees it and hates himself a little more because he’s caused her even more pain.

"There are always exceptions to the rule," he says.

"But you're the exception every single time, aren't you? That's _your_ armor—how you keep people out. You're always the worst, the person no one can ever like because if they knew about the _real_ you, they'd laugh themselves sick at what a total waste of carbon you are. You're convinced you’re repulsive, disgusting, you're a joke of a human being."

 _You see_ , his father's voice whispers. _Even she can figure out what's going on._

"Greg." He pulls his attention back to Roz. She watches him with a subtle sadness he cannot bear to see. "I'm not good, and I'm not bad. I'm who I am, the same way you are. I like you, even when you're pissing me off." She smiles just a little, but the sadness doesn't go away. "I want to be with you because I like being around you, I like talking with you, touching you. As for trust . . ." She looks shamefaced, and suddenly Greg feels a deep regret for the way he’s hurt her. "You're right. That's really hard for me. All I can say is, I do want to trust you. I want you to trust me too. I’ve said that before, and I still mean it."

As always, he takes refuge in flippancy. "Kumbaya. Where's the campfire?"

To his surprise, Roz doesn't get mad. "It sounds corny, yeah. Can't help that. It's still true though."

For a moment or two they sit together in silence. Eventually Roz gets up and finishes the dishes. When she puts the dishtowel on its hook Greg gets to his feet. Without a word he holds out his hand. She looks at him, then puts her hand in his and follows him through the living room to the front porch. There is an old glider on the right side of the door, piled with soft cushions. They sit down together, side by side in the soft dusk, and stare out at the lawn. When Roz's head comes to rest on his shoulder he moves a little closer, gently releases her hand to slide his arm about her. She is warm, substantial; not a phantom or a miserable jerk’s hopeless dream, but as real as it gets.

“I want you to tell me about your past, when you’re ready,” she says finally. “I’m pretty sure I’ll stick around even when you reveal the worst.”

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” he says.

“I’m not,” she says.  He dares to brush a soft kiss over her crown as her arm slips about his waist. She gives him a gentle squeeze and settles in with a quiet sigh as the evening falls without judgment, still and soft.

_‘Rag Doll’, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons_


	8. Chapter 8

_August 26th_

_(She's at the top of the wave, and looks down as the water rises beneath her board, green and glassy. She gets to her feet, ready to ride the crest, and watches as the wave expands, grows taller, larger, wider . . . Twenty, thirty, fifty feet and still it swells, mountainous water fills the whole of her vision, lifts her up. She knows she can't do this, it's just too damn big, but she has to try anyway or she'll drown for sure._

_The nose of the board points down; she takes a breath and begins the ride, terrified and exhilarated at the same time . . .)_

Sarah woke on a gasp. Slowly the images receded and left her in the soft darkness. Her dreams were often vivid, but this one had been so real she could almost taste the salt water. She sat up and ran a hand through her curls as she tried to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

 _What the hell was that about?_ She went over the sequence of events, frowned a little. In her personal dream symbolism, water always represented emotion, whatever form it came in—steam, liquid, ice. A mountainous wave seemed fairly simple: lots of feelings, overpowering perhaps. As for the surf imagery, that too appeared obvious . . . but none of this seemed right somehow. Her interpretation wasn't off, it just felt as if this symbolism didn't apply to her. Which begged the question—if it wasn't her dream, whose was it?

As she sat there, she became aware of music. It came from the main floor of the house. Sarah lifted her head and listened. After a moment she stood, put on her bathrobe and went downstairs. Greg sat in his favorite easy chair in the cool darkness, guitar in hand. Sarah turned on a lamp and chose a seat across from him. He continued to play but didn’t look at her. She waited; he would tell her in his own good time what was going on.

"Woke you up," he said at last.

"A dream woke me up," she said. "I heard you playing." She tucked her legs to the side and settled in. "You're having trouble sleeping."

Blue eyes pinned her with a hard stare. "That a question or a statement?"

"Question." She kept her tone neutral.

"Then ask it like one and don't pussyfoot around."

Sarah felt unwelcome surprise. He hadn't snapped at her in quite some time. "Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"No." He strummed a chord and picked it. "Next question."

She hesitated. "Then why are you awake at two a.m.?"

He snorted. " _Duh._ Felt like playing."

Sarah looked at her hands. "Does this have anything to do with your dinner with Roz and Lou?" Greg didn't answer, which meant she'd hit the mark. "What happened?"

"First tell me about your dream."

"Okay." She leaned her head against the cushion. "I was surfing a wave that was absolutely huge. It kept getting bigger and taller, but I had to take it on. Ride, or drown." She turned her head a little. "Tell me what happened."

"Uh uh. I get to ask how things turned out." He watched her from the corner of his eye, a clear attempt to gauge her reaction.

"I woke up before the dream ended, but it felt like I was going to make it." She stretched a little. "You can always tell when you're going to wipe out."

He stopped. "You've _surfed_?"

She smiled. "Once. It was years ago, during spring break. My boyfriend took me to the HMB Jetty for lessons, then he'd surf Mavericks in the afternoons until it got blown out. We spent a week in wetsuits and had the time of our lives. At the end of the week we drove down to Pescadero and stayed with his parents till we went back to school."

"Idyllic." Greg began again and picked a chord, slow and steady. "Why'd you break up?"

"We weren't serious about each other." She tipped her head back. "What did you and Roz fight about?"

"Didn't." He found a harmonic, made it ring.

"What happened?"

"You must have known you and the guy weren’t serious, if you were able to leave him so easily."

 _We haven't done quid pro quo in quite a while. He must really be spooked, and he's looking for answers too. A very telling combination._ "About halfway through the week I had to take him to the ER after he was beat up in a bad wipeout. I was worried, like you'd worry about a friend, but I wasn't . . . scared." Sarah paused. "If I'd loved him, I'd have been freaking out."

"Have to admire that precise diagnostic criteria," Greg said.

"It's an accepted clinical diagnosis." She kept a straight face. "So, what happened?"

"You're annoyingly persistent," he said. He picked a melody she didn't recognize.

"Yes I am," she said. "I only pester you because I care. Now spill."

Greg was silent so long Sarah didn't think he would answer her. "Anxiety attack," he said at last, so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

"Ah.”

He shot her a glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never you mind," she said. "Describe what happened, please."

He paused, hand poised over the strings. "You had an insight and you're not gonna share."

"Not just yet." She pulled the throw off the back of the couch and covered her legs. "Stop stalling, Greg."

He grunted in what could be amusement. "Not much to tell. We had dinner, her grandfather gave her into my keeping, I freaked out."

Sarah considered his words. "How did Roz respond?"

"How did your boyfriend take it when you broke things off with him?"

"Pretty well. A week later he was going out with the hottest cheerleader on the team," Sarah said dryly. "I'm sure it was a nice change for him."

"You don't believe you were equal competition." Greg shook his head. "And you think I have neuroses."

She shrugged. "I have no illusions. Not gorgeous, not hideous, just somewhere comfortably in the middle, I hope." She tilted her head. "What did Roz do?"

"She . . . stood up to me." He sounded baffled. "She thinks my past doesn't matter as long as I . . ." He stopped. "She wants a damn fairy tale. Happily ever after. I can't give her that."

"Are you sure that's what she wants?" Sarah was careful to make her tone neutral.

"You were sure your boyfriend didn't want endless bliss with you."

She nodded. "Yes."

He nodded. "There you go."

"Okay, so you're positive she wants something you can't give her." Sarah chose her words with care. "Why can't you?"

He strummed a series of chords, choosing each one with care. "I don't do happy."

"Who told you that?"

"Who told you your boyfriend wasn't the one?"

"Me. And him," she said. "We both knew. Who told you?"

"Stacy . . ." He hesitated. “She said there was no room for her in our relationship."

"That might have been true at the time, and for the two of you," Sarah said. "I don't think it is now. And I don't think she meant it as a blanket statement."

"I don't need reassurance!" he snapped. Sarah took a deep breath. He sounded angry and worse, frightened.

"I can only tell you how I see things," she said. "Truth is a three-edged sword. There's yours, mine and what is."

Greg said nothing for a long time. Then, "So what's yours?"

"I pushed you too hard when it comes to Roz," she said. "I want you to be happy so the motive was well-intentioned, but it was selfish. Seeing you finding someone makes me happy. It doesn't take into account what's best for you, though."

He picked a chord. "That's very self-aware of you."

"Oh, I still think you and Roz are a good idea," she said. "From where I'm standing it looks like there are two people in the relationship. But your point of view is the one that counts." She glanced at him. "What do you think?"

"Don't know." He tapped another harmonic. "This is different than how things were with Stacy. I'm even less . . ." He searched for the word. "Less whole."

"You mean physically?" Sarah said, and dared to push just a little. "You weren't whole emotionally or spiritually then either, I'm thinking."

He made a derisive noise. "There is no 'spiritually' about this."

"Spirituality is not limited to religious beliefs," Sarah said. "It defines how you feel about your place in the world, in your environment, how you relate to other people. I guess you could call it your moment in the cosmos."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Gene’s away and you use New Age wishful thinking to administer a psychic gang-bang."

"Whether we admit it or not, we're constantly assessing our position as it relates to the world around us."

Greg picked the melody for REM's 'Stand'. Sarah chuckled at the joke. "Exactly. So where do you stand in the place where you live?"

"Maybe . . . overwhelmed," he said after a long silence filled only by music.

"Okay," Sarah said. "Not surprising. You've gone through a lot of change this past year." She took a chance, let her intuition guide her. "How about spending less time with Roz?"

Greg's expression darkened. _Here it comes,_ Sarah thought. _All or nothing kicking in right . . . about . . . now._

"How about we just forget the whole thing." He set the guitar aside and got to his feet.

"Why?" Sarah watched him.

"Because it's pointless." He began to pace, limped to the fireplace and stood in front of it, shoulders hunched.

"What makes you say that?"

He glared at her. "Oh, this is loads of fun for you, isn't it? A real feast of goodies to enjoy."

"I'd be lying if I said that wasn't true to some extent," she said, and smiled as he deflated a little.

"Dammit," he said. "Give me something to work with here."

Sarah sighed. "If I was anything less than truthful, or if I resorted to lecturing you or scolding, you'd never let me get away with it."

"Yeah, well." He turned to lean against the mantel. "I—I can't not see her. It would be . . ." He paused.

"An admission of defeat," she said. He looked away. "I'd say it's more along the lines of a patient who's recuperating from major surgery and cutting back on post-operative exercise while the incision heals."

He didn’t speak at first. “So throwing Roz at me was your version of occupational therapy,” he said. Sarah winced.

“No,” she said. _It figures he’d put the worst spin on events._

“Yes.” Greg turned to face her. The fear was worse now, mixed with anger and a pain so deep it made her heart ache for him. “You saw two fucked-up people and decided if you put us together we just might make something approximating one functioning human being. Only it backfired, didn’t it? The party of the first part went a little too far and deluded herself into thinking she has feelings for me—“

“Greg.” He fell silent as he glared at her. Sarah noted his breathing was fast and shallow, his skin pale and his eyes glassy. “I thought you would be good for each other, but not as therapy. If I’m guilty of anything it’s pushing you to spend more time with her when you were weren’t ready to do so, and for that I’m sorry.” She kept her tone neutral. “Check your pulse.”

He growled at her and turned away, but did as she asked. “Shit,” he muttered after a few moments. “Way too fast.” He pushed away from the mantel. “So I’m having an attack. That won't make what I’m saying any less true.”

“Sit down.” She kept her voice firm and quiet. When he obeyed with some reluctance she said, “I didn’t throw Roz at you thinking it would be cheap therapy. I watched the two of you when she was here working on the office.”

“Continue,” he prompted when she didn’t go on.

“At first you couldn’t stand each other, but gradually you both began to find common ground. You like her independence, she likes your sense of humor. She enjoys learning about the world through you, you know. And you get a huge kick out of her practical nature, her ability with math and the way she sees detail and the whole picture at the same time.”

“Yeah, that’s a great basis for a relationship,” Greg said with some bitterness. “She does calculus before we get it on, it really heightens orgasm.”

“Would you say you and Roz are friends?”

The question appeared to disconcert him. He shifted his gaze away from her. “That doesn’t matter.”

“I think it matters quite a bit. Gene and I were friends first.”

“He moved in right after you met him,” Greg said. “That’s shackin’ up, plain and simple.”

“We knew what we wanted,” Sarah said. “But we were already friends before we made the decision to move it to the next level. I’m not saying your friendship with Roz will become something more, but it is a good basis for a relationship if you both decide that’s what you want.”

“So sex doesn’t come into the equation.” Greg put plenty of sarcasm in the statement.

“Of course it does, but it’s just one part of what makes up the whole. That’s like saying _y_ in the formula ‘one over _x_ plus _y_ ’ is the only integer that counts.”

He gave her a dry look. “You are so not a mathematician.”

“Damn, you’ve discovered my terrible secret.” She looked at her hands. “I wanted you to find a friend in Roz, but I wanted it a little too much and pushed you. That’s caused problems, and it’s my fault. I’ll say it again--I’m sorry, Greg. It was wrong of me to do that.” He said nothing, but his agitation appeared to ease a bit. Sarah went on, and kept her voice calm and steady. “Anyway, two attacks in twenty-four hours tells me you need some help. In a few hours I’ll call Gene and see what he recommends to ease the anxiety.”

“So you’re going to just medicate it into oblivion.” Greg sounded bitter.

“We’ll find something that helps you stay a little calmer while we look at the underlying issues,” Sarah said. “I’m also going to suggest a compromise. If you don’t want to spend less time with Roz, then how about cutting back on work a little?”

“I never said I didn’t want to spend less time with the electrician chick. You assumed.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Sarah said, and pushed away impatience. “Do you?”

“No I don’t,” he growled. “It’s my business how much of my day I waste hanging out with Roz.”

Sarah nodded. “Fine by me. Let’s trim the work hours then.”

"Wirth will have something to say about that," he said finally. Sarah caught the fear under the harsh tone. “I signed on for full time.”

"She knew from the start that you might need to make some adjustments. She'll take it in stride."

“Because you told her I’m a wack job,” he said. Sarah tucked a curl behind her ear.

“Diane knows you’re a recovering addict and spent time in Mayfield,” she said. “She read the paperwork I provided because she had to. But I’ve never told anyone you were crazy and I never will, because you’re not.”

"The reinstatement will get pushed back."

"Yeah, it will. That's a good thing, I think," she said. "Too much too fast, and the patient might have serious complications."

“You think I’m that fragile. Thanks a lot.” The bitterness in his tone made her wince.

“I think you need to pace yourself,” Sarah said. “There’s a difference.”

After a moment he got up and came toward her to perch on the arm of the couch. "How many hours?"

"How about twenty?" Sarah suggested. "Four hours five days a week?"

He was immediately uneasy. “That’s . . . that’s a big change.”

“Thirty then,” Sarah said. “Or twenty-five. Twelve to five. You can sleep late and still put in a nice chunk of time.”

Greg tilted his head and considered it. “Better than a poke in the eye with a book on dream symbolism.”

"True," Sarah said. "I suggest you take a couple of personal days while Gene works on finding a scrip for you. Kick back, relax. I'm making some apple pies to freeze and I'd appreciate a little company as well as a taste-tester. God knows there’s plenty of wood to chop, and the Phils have an afternoon game I plan to catch if you want to watch it with me." It came as something of a surprise to realize how much she’d missed him around the house since he'd started work.

"Enabler," he said, but his heart wasn't in it. In fact she detected a faint overtone of relief.

“You want me to call Diane?” she asked, but he shook his head.

“I’ll do it, but you’d better be in the room in case my head rotates in a complete circle and I start puking split pea soup."

“Okay.” She hesitated. “You know I’m going to do some probing when we talk. It won’t be easy. But it will help.”

“Because body cavity searches solve everything.” Greg stood. “Yeah . . . I know,” he said. He sounded awkward and defensive.

“It’s the usual routine,” Sarah said softly. “I’ll ask some questions, you deflect, get snarky and then answer them, and we’ll go from there.” She sat up, adjusted the throw. “Hand me the guitar, please.”

“Gonna lull me back to sleep, that’s so sweet.” He picked up the Martin and gave it to her.

“I like to play for my boy,” she said without thinking. Greg stared down at her. His eyes widened a little.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” he said. “I’m older than you and yet you see me in the role of child.”

Sarah pretended to tune the instrument as her face grew warm. “I don’t see you as a child,” she said. “I consider you a friend and an equal, but there are . . . overtones of a . . . a mother and son relationship, yes.” She fell silent, embarrassed by the revelation. _He’ll never let me live it down._

“Can I get away with texting my boss, mother dear?” he asked after a moment. Sarah rolled her eyes and chose to fight fire with fire.

“It’s up to you. Go lie down for a while, but use the bathroom first. If you get some water from the kitchen, make sure you use a clean glass. Do you need anything before—“

“ _Jeez_. You’re ten times worse than a real mom.” He moved past her, paused. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. It trembled just a little. He stayed there for several moments in silence. Then he moved through the soft shadows to his room. He left the door open an inch or two. Sarah wrapped the throw around her legs, settled the Martin against her belly, and took her time as she chose a song. When the right one came to her she smiled a little and set the music free into the gentle darkness.  

_summer was gone and the heat died down_

_and Autumn reached for her golden crown_

_I looked behind as I heard a sigh_

_but this was the time of no reply_

 

_‘Time of No Reply,’ Nick Drake_


	9. Chapter 9

_August 28th_

The phone rang at the usual time. Sarah finished the last sentence of her reply to Laynie, sent off the email and picked up the receiver.

“Hey love,” she said. “How are you? Any news on the trip back yet?”

“Hey,” Gene said. He sounded tired. “Looks like my flight’s coming in on the first at Newark, about six p.m.”

“I’ll be there. How are you?” she asked for the second time.

Gene sighed. “Ready to come home.” He hesitated. “How about you?”

“I’m fine,” Sarah said. “What’s on your mind?”

He didn’t speak right away. When he did, his tone put her on alert. “Would you . . . would it bother you if we didn’t go to Cape May this year?”

Sarah frowned a little, not so much at the question as the unspoken plea behind it. “Well . . . it won’t break my heart if we don’t make it, no.” It was a lie; she’d looked forward to going away all summer. Still, if Gene needed time at home before he returned to work, she could give up her vacation for once.

“Okay.” The relief in Gene’s voice troubled her. Sarah wanted to ask him what was wrong, but it didn’t seem like a good time; they had so few moments together on the phone.

“How’s it going?” she asked instead. “Did you get the supplies we sent?”

“No, not yet. There was another aftershock from the quake we had last month,” Gene said. “Not much is coming in from Port au Prince at the moment—hold on.” He said something to someone in rapid-fire French, sharp and cold. Sarah winced. He only spoke that way when he was under considerable stress. Her uneasiness increased. Something was definitely wrong; over the last few phone calls she’d sensed something wasn’t right, but whatever it was, it was worse now.

“Sorry,” Gene was saying. “I have to go.” He sounded brusque, dismissive.

“Okay.” She tried hard to sound steady and calm. “I’ll see you very soon. Miss you.”

“Yeah,” he said. His tone softened. “Yeah. I miss you too, Sarah. Love you.” And he was gone. Sarah ended the call and put the receiver down. She propped her arm on the desk and rested her forehead on her palm. Her other hand crept up to tangle a finger in her curls, tugged on them as she considered the difficulty before her.

_If Gene needs help, I can’t give it to him. I’m too emotionally involved, and even if I could find the objectivity somehow, working with Greg is taking most if not all of my focus right now. Gene won’t tell me if he’s in trouble anyway, he’s always been pretty stoic, especially with me. I need someone on call, someone he respects and would be willing to work with if he needs to do that._

After a time she opened a drawer in her desk and dug out an address book. She flipped through the pages, found what she looked for, stared at it for a few moments, then slowly closed the book and put it back. It wasn’t time, not yet. She’d wait until he came home. Maybe she’d imagined this; maybe it was simply the situation, and once he was out of Haiti things would improve.

 

Greg is about to take another beer from the fridge when Sarah comes in. She looks preoccupied; her curls are in disarray. That means she’s yanked on them, something she only does when she’s upset or tried to resolve some difficulty. She says nothing, only reaches past him to snag a ginger beer. “What’s up?” he says, and waits for her to make a joke or simply tell him. Instead she moves back to lean against the counter.

“Nothing,” she says quietly. Greg pops the cap off his beer on the island counter. Her answer disconcerts him; he expected some rant about how the raccoons in the neighborhood won’t leave her garden alone and she’ll have to sit out all night again with baseball bat in hand, or the well needs a new point, or she wants to paint the back door—mundane, everyday stuff, not avoidance. He feels an unwelcome lurch of tension in his gut and compensates with a little sarcasm.

“Of course. That’s why you look like someone dragged you backward through a haymow.”

She tilts her head and gives him a quizzical look. “Who told you about haymows?”

“Patient.” He slugs down some beer and gives a nice loud belch just because he can. “Apparently you can jump out of one and not only survive, but get up and do it again.”

“Well yeah, if there’s enough hay on the barn floor and you’re smart enough to keep pilin' it up after you’ve jumped, otherwise you’ll break your ankles.” She twists her ginger beer open, takes a sip. “So what did the patient—“

“Uh uh uh,” he wags a finger at her. “No deflecting. If I can’t do it, neither can you.”

She has the grace to blush. “I—nothing’s wrong.”

“ _Liar_.” He savors the word with satisfaction, draws it out. He’s waited a long time for the opportunity to say it to her and have it be the truth. Sarah sighs very softly.

“Okay, yes. I’m lying.”

Another unexpected answer. “Wow, total buzzkill,” he complains, disappointed. “You’re not supposed to admit my accusation up front, oh jackbooted trampler-underfoot of good times.”

“I don’t have a choice,” she says. Greg pauses, takes in what she’s said.

“You mean telling me you’re lying, or harshing my mellow?”

“It’s about Gene,” she says. Her shoulders slump just a little.

“Gunney’s having problems,” he says. “Not too difficult to figure out, actually.”

“Don’t.” He can barely hear her, so he ignores her and continues.

“You just got off the phone with hubby and now you’re in here all _verklempt_. You’ve had that look the last three times you’ve spoken with him. Ergo, dude’s in trouble.” For answer she walks away. Greg watches her, a bit surprised. He follows her into the living room and grabs his favorite easy chair. “So what’s the big deal?” he says as he settles in. “I already know—“

“I can’t talk about it,” she says. She hovers behind the couch like she’s going to flee the country.

“Thought I was family,” he says, making sure he sounds stricken. Her blush deepens.

“You are, and stop trying to make me feel guilty. I already do.” She hesitates. “If I talk to you about this . . .” She looks even more troubled. “It’s the same as my disclosing confidential information about our sessions to Gene. I won’t do that.”

“The horns of a dilemma,” Greg says softly. “Even worse when you put yourself there.” She nods—yet another surprise, he’d expected resistance or denial. For some reason all this twisted honesty annoys him. “Apparently it never occurred to either one of you brain trusts that sending someone with latent PTSD to a third world country where all hell’s broken loose might not be exactly the best course of action. I could swear I remember saying this wasn’t a good idea the first time he traipsed off to Disasters R Us.”

“I—“ She stops, clearly on the brink of a revelation. He waits for her to take off. Instead she perches a hip on the back of the couch—not ready to stay, but not in flight either. “We’ve had arguments about this in the past."

“Obviously you lost.”

“I compromised.”

“Oh come on,” he says, his annoyance on the rise. “Don’t go all politically correct on me.”

“I’m not!” She doesn’t snap at him often, in fact it’s pretty rare, so it works the way she probably intended it to and he shuts up. “It was compromise or lose him. There are some things he won’t give in on. This is one of them.”

“That’s not compromise, it’s all or nothing. If he threatened to leave you because you wouldn’t give in, he’s a selfish ass,” Greg says, tongue planted firmly in cheek.

“Takes one to know one,” Sarah says. Her face is scarlet, her fair skin flushed to the roots of her hair. She folds her arms and glares at him. “Don’t mess with me on this, Greg. I won’t—“

“Hah,” he interrupts her, delighted to turn the tables for once. “The great psychologist with the master plan doesn’t know what to do, even when the answer’s looking her right in the face.” Cold amusement takes over for a moment, whether he wants it to or not. Sarah gives him a long hard stare. He waits for the verbal tongue-lashing she’s about to unleash, wonders if maybe he doesn't look forward to a good barney. He hasn’t truly battled it out with someone in a while now, and he kinda misses it in a strange sort of way.

“You have this continuing delusion that I’m some perfect goddess of analysis who never makes mistakes,” she says finally, and he understands that she isn’t mad at him, at least not completely. This is about her inability to solve the problem, the blind spot she knows is there but can’t find. “I can’t resolve this,” she says, right on cue. But it isn’t lip service; she means it.

“Yes you can,” he says. “Tell him what this is doing to you.”

Her fingers dig into her flesh. “I can’t.”

“That’s such bullshit!” he says. Disbelief makes his voice rise. “Of course you can! You’re the one who preaches honesty will set you free, who says all or nothing attitudes are evil incarnate and we have choices! You flogged me with that sermon for months, and here you are hiding from something you know you have to face!” Sarah says nothing; she won’t look at him. Greg gives an exaggerated sniff or two. “Hmm . . . I detect the ripe stench of hypocrisy."

“I almost lost him over this, before.” Her voice is quiet. There are no tears in her eyes, but her voice isn’t quite steady. “If I push him, he’ll leave.”

“The only way you’ll know that for sure is to push him. If he leaves, he leaves,” he says. Sarah is silent. “If you keep giving in it’ll be like an abscess that scabs over but never really heals. Eventually it’ll either burst or kill the patient. Or both, if you’re really lucky. Nothing like exploding pus-filled humans to turn a boring day into something super-duper-special.”

“Spoken like a true mad scientist,” she says, but there’s no humor in the observation. “What else?” When he doesn’t answer she looks at him. “There’s more. Might as well say it.”

He takes a deep breath. “This is a result of you thinking Gene made a mistake when he married you.”

Her eyes widen. She wants to deny it; he can see the urge in her to tell him to get lost, go fuck himself, and any other epithet she can find to hurl. She struggles with it for a few moments. He watches her wrestle with her natural inclination to deny the truth and feels a grudging respect for the choice she’s made to do this, rather than just react.

“I . . . that’s not . . .”

“You just don’t want to admit I’m right,” he says, to goad her.

“I wish it was that simple,” she says, her sarcasm sharp. He doesn’t take it personally.

 “It is that simple. You should be thankful. Stop freaking out and admit it.”

She draws in a long breath, eyes closed, and in that moment he is reminded of Stacy. She did the same thing when she was about to concede defeat.

“Dammit,” Sarah says finally. Some of her inner fire fades. “I hate that you’re right, but you are. _Dammit_.”

“Seriously?” He blinks. "I'm better at this than you are."

“Oh, shut up.” She rubs her scarred arm in an absent manner; he’s not even sure she knows she does it. “I don’t know how to talk to him about this.”

“Well, you don’t have to smack him in the face with it the minute he steps off the plane,” Greg says. “Pace yourself. Wait till you get him home. Then you can work him over, in more ways than one.”

“And end up in a huge argument that will take the rest of our lives to repair,” she says dryly.

He shrugs. “So what? Phyllis Diller had it right, you know. ‘Never go to bed mad, stay up and fight’.”

Sarah shoots him a sardonic look. “Just for that you’re not getting a paisley Snuggie for Christmas,” she says. Greg can’t stop a smile, though he manages to keep it to one corner of his mouth, turned up just a bit.

“I’ll live with that crushing disappointment somehow,” he says. “Problem solved. I’ve got a game to watch. Pay my receptionist on the way out.”

He settles back and turns on the tv. Much to his surprise, Sarah comes around the couch and sits next to him. She eases her feet up onto the coffee table—something she rarely does—and snuggles into the corner, tucks a pillow under her head. “Who’s . . . who’s playing tonight?” she asks. It’s clear she’s still upset, but her question holds only inquiry. Greg stares at her.

“No recriminations, no long-suffering looks, martyred sighs. I’m impressed.”

“Who’s playing?” she asks again. He pulls up the guide.

“Phils and the Padres. Wild card, game two.” Sarah nods and sips her ginger beer. They watch the first inning end and the teams change places. After a while Greg looks over to see Sarah’s got a finger in her hair. She doesn’t pull on it, she just winds a curl, an expression of intense study on her face. He doubts it’s because she’s fascinated by Shane Victorino’s batting style. “What?” he says. She glances over at him.

“I’m thinking,” she says. He rolls his eyes.

“You _know_ I’m right.”

“But I have to ponder it,” she says. Greg polishes off his beer.

“Ponder,” he says. “An interesting choice of words.”

Sarah reaches out to take his bottle, gets up and goes into the kitchen. When she comes back she has two plates in her hands. Both contain a generous slice of fresh apple pie and a wedge of cheddar cheese. He’d never had cheese with pie before he moved here, but now he almost prefers it to ice cream.

“I wanted another beer,” he says as he accepts the plate.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner,” she says as she sits down next to him. “Might as well fill up on apples and cheese.” When he picks up his fork she sets hers down and steals the remote.

“Hey!” He glares at her. “I’m watching that game!”

“Too bad.” She changes the channel. To his disgust he sees it’s one of the paranormal shows she likes to watch now and then.

“Aw, come on! Not this crap!”

“I feel the need to mock something,” she says, and tucks the remote on the far side of her where he can’t get at it. “ _Ghost Adventures_ is perfect.”

“Stupid fucking show,” Greg grumbles. “Waste of time, space and money.”

“Why yes, yes it is,” Sarah says. “Oh look. They’re in Gettysburg. How much you wanna bet they’ll see some ghost trundling by with a wheelbarrow full of body parts?”

Despite himself he snickers, and so it begins. As the comments fly he watches her. The fine lines of tension around her eyes slowly relax as she jokes and laughs with him between bites of apple pie. It occurs to him that she could have gone to the office or upstairs to wrestle with this problem, or used him as a trash can for her anger and anxiety. Instead she’s apparently actually chosen to find a little comfort in his company. The realization gives him a sense of ease, something he often feels when he’s with her. He’s still pissed about the game, but maybe for just this once he can record it and watch the rest later, when she’s asleep.

“Oh look,” she says. “They’re about to enter the sadistic orphanage. You can tell, because the building has ‘SADISTIC ORPHANAGE—WIPE YOUR FEET’ written in big gothic letters over the front door. Roz would be so over this.”

Greg shoots her a surprised look. “Why the hell would she care?”

“She’s a ghost hunter,” Sarah says, and takes a bite of pie and cheese. His jaw actually drops.

“You are _kidding_ me.”

“Nope. She didn’t tell you?” Sarah licks her fork. “She and Tony Hutch do investigations.”

“You mean this—this--“ he points a fork at the onscreen antics. Sarah shakes her head.

“No, we’re talking _real_ investigations. More like the first season of Ghost Hunters, debunking instead of believing every noise is your great-aunt Tilly come back to haunt you. You should go with her sometime, it’s pretty cool.”

“Completely ridiculous. Dead is dead,” he says, utterly disgusted. “No one ever comes back because there’s nothing to come back from!”

“Maybe that’s true,” Sarah says. “Maybe it isn’t. But it’s worth exploring.” She sets her empty plate aside and settles into the couch. A few minutes later she’s asleep. Greg watches her, then gets to his feet, sneaks over as quietly as he can manage, slides the remote out from under her leg, and returns to his chair. He switches the tv back to the game, picks up his plate and finishes off the pie. He really does want another beer, but he doesn’t feel like a walk to the kitchen and anyway, he’s comfortably full now. He watches Victorino hit a triple and send Werth home to score a run, a completion of his second RBI of the game, and ponders—his new favorite word—the evening’s events.


	10. Chapter 10

_September 1st_

“I think we can wire this thing.”

With her examination of the wiring in the barn ceiling finished, Roz clambers down the ladder and jumps the last two rungs. As she dusts her hands on her shorts, Greg watches her with appreciation and more than a touch of envy. He remembers what’s it like to be that agile, but sometimes it seems like another life. Actually it was, come to think of it. The way he lives now has almost nothing in common with what he had before, except for his memories. “How long and how much?” he asks.

“How long . . . well, if we make it an official job, about a month. It’ll cost more that way,” she says, and perches on a ladder rung. “If I do it after hours it’ll just be cost of materials, but it’ll take longer.”

“Because you have this strange compulsion to work yourself to death,” he says, annoyed.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might _like_ to do this for you?” She tilts her head a bit and watches him.

For some reason that hurts. He retaliates in kind. “Maybe I’d _like_ you to back off, ever think of that?”

She looks at the ground, but not before he sees the pain in her eyes. What’s worse though is that she isn’t mad at him. She expected this, and that hurts him even more. “Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. Let me know how you want to set things up and I’ll talk to Kyle.”

“I—oh, _fuck_ this!” Greg moves forward, to stop a few inches away from her. She won’t look at him. “Roz. _Rosa_ ,” he says, in an attempt to catch her unaware. She doesn’t take the bait. “Look--I’m not good at . . .” He thumps his cane on the floor, impatient with his unusual lack of words.

“It’s all right,” she says. She’s said this before to someone else, maybe more than once, he can tell. That’s partly where her pain comes from; now he’s supplied her with more and she’s retreated from him, put on her armor. She moves away. “We’d better get back to the house before it’s too dark.”

“That’s why bikes have headlights,” he snaps. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I’m still—still figuring out how to have a relationship with someone that isn’t based on . . . mutually assured destruction.”

She says nothing. At last she gives a hesitant nod. “I understand.”

“Then you’re doing better than I am,” he says, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a spray bottle of Cutter’s bug repellent, the one he put there when he found out she’d been invited for dinner. He offers it to her, and knows she will understand what it means. “Do we use it or not?”

Roz takes the bottle, cradles it. She has workworn, capable hands, calluses on her palms and the pads of her fingers; one thumbnail is blue at the end with healthy bed at the bottom, obviously an old injury. After a moment she looks up at him, a searching gaze. He returns it, because he owes her this much. “Let’s see,” she says. A smile tugs at her mouth. “Come on.”

There’s a waning moon high above. The pale, distant crescent keeps watch as they find a spot in the clearing behind the barn. They face each other. Roz gives him the bottle, then strips off her tank top. Greg stares at her in surprise as she ditches her shorts as well, hooks two fingers in her panties, tugs them down and tosses them atop the small pile of clothing. With that she spreads her arms and closes her eyes. He takes the chance to conduct a leisurely inspection. She’s got almost no body fat and pretty as they are, her boobs are still more or less an afterthought . . . but her skin is smooth, her legs go on forever, and that little nest of curls at the top of her thighs both intrigues and excites him. In the faint silvery light she shines like a champagne diamond on black velvet, all warm fire and soft darkness.

“I’m really hoping a horde of ravenous mosquitoes doesn’t wander by right about now,” she says dryly, eyes still shut. Greg can’t help but smile a little.

“There’s a moon out tonight,” he says, and chuckles when Roz gives an indignant snort. “I mean besides yours. We won’t see too many stars.”

“I think we’ll cope somehow,” she says. “By the way, my arms are getting tired.”

He sprays her, walks around to cover her back. And a lovely back it is, straight and slender, her sartorius nicely curved above a sweet little dimpled ass, a surprise in someone so thin. He watches her shiver as the mist touches her skin. He feels a surge of heat and his jeans get tight. That’s kinda nice in a painful sort of way.

When she’s done, he puts the bottle in her hand. She opens her eyes and lowers her arms. He knows of course that when he peels down he’ll not only reveal his erection, but also his scars. Still, fair’s fair. He starts to tug his tee shirt up, only to have small fingers close gently over his. “Hey,” Roz says. Her smile glimmers in the dark. “No expectations. Do what you want, _amante_. I’m okay with whatever you decide.”

They end up side by side on the blanket he brought with him. He’s still clothed and feels completely ridiculous, until Roz moves closer and kisses the corner of his mouth. He puts his arm around her; his hand cups her breast. She sighs, a soft contented sound, and lays her cheek to his shoulder.

“I . . .” He falls silent. Roz rubs his chest, a slow, tender gesture. It gives him the nerve to keep going. “I don’t . . . I might not ever . . .” This is stupid, he sounds like a scared little cherry virgin.

“It’ll be all right,” Roz says. “I really do understand now.” She means it, he can hear the certainty in her voice. A suspicion pops up. He decides to address it.

“You talked with Sarah.” He waits for her answer.

“No.” She sounds surprised. “Why would I do that?”

“She knows a lot about my personal history. I’d expect you to follow up on such a good source of information.”

“I wouldn’t do that without asking you first.” She gives a little gasp as his thumb brushes her nipple.

“And then there’s that whole doctor-patient confidentiality thing,” he says, as he traces a slow circle around the hardened nub.

“Y-yeah,” she says, and sighs as his hand slides over her side, across her hip and belly to find the cleft at the top of her thighs. When his fingers part the soft folds there she arches her back, opens to him. She does so without hesitation, something he finds remarkable under the circumstances.

He works her long and slow, takes her to the brink several times until she begs him to finish. Feeling her shudder and her warm flesh convulse under his touch as orgasm fills her, his name on her lips, gives him a sense of satisfaction. He keeps his hand in place, affords her little echoes of pleasure with additional stimulation until she almost purrs. He can almost see the afterglow as it rolls off her in shimmering waves.

He allows her a bit of time to relax and lower her guard. Then he says quietly, “I know you talked to Sarah.” He doesn’t know any such thing, it’s a complete bluff, but he has to know for sure if she did or didn’t. Roz is silent for a few moments. She sits up and looks down at him. He can’t see her expression, can’t sense her state of mind, but because what he just did was a low-down rotten trick she can’t be all that pleased.

“You did that to get me to talk?” she says finally.

“I did it to guilt you into telling the truth,” he says. She just looks at him.

“Well, you’re free to interrogate me again any time you like, but you should know it was a wasted effort on your side of things,” she says. Greg’s eyes widen a little. Is that actually _amusement_ he hears in her words? “I told you, I haven’t talked to Sarah or asked her anything about you. I won’t do that. But you know . . .” Her hand comes to rest on his fly. “It’s entirely possible _you’ve_ been the one asking her questions.”

His chest feels a little tight. “Is that so.”

“Oh, I think there’s a high probability.” She gives the bulge in his jeans a little caress and his heart rate starts to pick up. “A bit of turnabout’s fair play, wouldn’t you say?” She stills her touch and he almost groans aloud.

 _Do we really want to do this?_ his rational mind asks. _It’s not a prudent course at this time. There are significant consequences to consider._

Another thought—actually it’s an emotional/hormonal urge, loud, desperate and brash, a limbic-brain escapee, most likely--muscles its way into the neocortex’s orderly classroom where his conscious mind holds lecture, and growls _Say yes, dammit!_

 _Now wait just a moment,_ rational mind says in mild alarm. _You’re only suggesting this course of action because sex is being offered. Analysis of variables and their effect on potential outcome is required--_

 _Are you fucking KIDDING? _the urge howls. _Are you still completely MENTAL? Stop dicking around and SAY YES!!!_

“Greg?” Roz sounds a little worried. He ignores the voices in his head—hey, at least this time they’re not hallucinations, they’re just the same background noise he’s heard for years—and answers her.

“Uh . . . yes, absolutely.”

 _Predictable,_ rational mind sniffs.

 _SCORE!_ e/h urge exults.

“That’s good to hear. So . . .” She unzips his fly with deliberate slowness. “So, let’s get down to brass tacks, so to speak. Have you been talking to Sarah about me?”

“No, I--aaaaahhhhh . . .” His fingers dig into the grass as she takes him in hand. It’s been so long since anyone’s touched him this way without being paid to do so, he’s not sure he remembers how to act. Greg junior doesn't have that problem though. He springs into Roz’s small palm with an enthusiasm at which Greg senior can only marvel, and enjoy too.

“You’re sure?” She begins to work him and his erection goes into overdrive. “My god, you’re big as a house.”

He blinks. She just made a pun, and she laughs while she does it. Then she strokes the sweet spot under his glans and he loses all conscious thought.

When he comes back to earth finally she’s got a big smug grin on her face, he can see that much. “Hope I . . . I didn’t reveal . . . any state secrets,” he manages to say in something like a coherent fashion, after he catches his breath and his heart rate slows down.

“I think you mentioned deity once or twice.” He can’t help but snort in amusement.

“So . . . we’re good,” he says, but as he speaks he knows that isn’t true. He needs to ante up.

“Oh, I think we’re more than good,” Roz says, then watches in what he knows is puzzlement, as he struggles to his feet. It’s not a pretty sight, especially after he’s expended a lot of energy on something as frivolous as an orgasm, and yet he wants her to see what she’s bargained for. It is difficult for him to remove his clothes standing up because he has to use the cane for balance, but he does it. When he gets to the TENS unit he starts to peel off the pads.

“You don’t have to do that,” Roz says very quietly from behind him, but he knows he does. Naked is naked, and that means everything. After the last pad is gone he turns around. She can’t really see his scars—the leg of course, but also the belly and neck wounds from the attack, and the other, older ones on his back and shoulders—but it doesn’t matter. Eventually she’ll get to view them by light of some kind. Right now all he cares about is that he’s done this, finally. He closes his eyes, lifts one arm and waits. When the cool spray touches his skin he shivers, much as Roz did earlier. She circles around him, covers him from top to bottom. Then she comes up to him and presses a kiss to his lips. When it ends they ease down to the blanket and snuggle together. He has to admit this is much better. Skin on skin is comforting somehow, even if they both reek of repellent. It feels right to have this woman in his arms, her thick hair soft against his cheek. In this moment he is at peace, and knows she is too.

“Show me some constellations,” Roz says after a little while. Greg turns his head a bit to look up at the sky.

“See the cross floating through the Milky Way?”

“Mmm . . . I see it.”

“That’s Cygnus, the Swan. It’s also known as the Northern Cross. And down below it is a bright star called Altair. It’s a part of Aquila, the Eagle.” The patterns are there, old friends he knows well.

“What’s that big one off to the side?” Roz’s slender arm lifts. Her hand points to the west. Greg squints in that direction.

“That’s not a star, it’s a planet. Jupiter, I think.” He remembers the telescope he had years ago, a really kickass Celestron. Stacy took it when they split up. “We should get a good pair of binoculars or a portable ‘scope with a tripod if we’re going to make this a regular event. Then we could see some of the darker equatorial bands. We can look at moon craters too.”

She lowers her arm to embrace him once more. “You know so much. I love that about you.”

He doesn’t have any idea how to respond. No one’s ever said it to him before. Most people don’t like his encyclopedic knowledge; unless it’s useful to them they find it almost as annoying, presumptuous and arrogant as the fact that he dares to make use of it.

“I meant what I said.” Roz apparently takes his silence for disbelief. “You’re the most incredible man, you know? You’re a genius, you’re funny, you have the biggest heart—“

“Oh come on,” he moans, embarrassed at this ridiculous litany.

“No, let me finish. I don’t mean it in a sentimental way, like love or romance.” She laughs softly. “You’re romantic and you care very much in your own style, though. I mean . . .” She traces a pattern over his left breast. “You have so much courage. You face things other people run away from, things they can’t handle. You’re honest, even when it isn’t easy or when you know you’re going to get hurt. That takes a lot of heart, and you’ve got it.”   

He lies there, at a complete loss for words. Roz turns her head to look at him. “You’re speechless."

“Shut up,” he growls as his face grows hot.

“I don’t believe it. You’re actually _embarrassed._ ” She sounds delighted.

“Not.” He bends down and silences her with a kiss. When it ends she brushes her lips over his.

“You can add cute to the list,” she says, and laughs when he puts his arm over his eyes, appalled but also just a tiny little bit pleased, if he uses that honesty she listed.

In the small hours they get dressed and go back to the house. As they stand on the front porch and exchange a few more kisses he dares to whisper “Stay.” Roz strokes his cheek.

“Soon,” she says softly. “Not yet, but soon.” Her smile glimmers in the dark. “See you in a day or two, _amante._ I’ll work up a quote on materials for you and we’ll get started.”

“You’d rather do that damn barn than me,” he grumbles, but he can’t stop a smile.

The house is quiet when he goes inside; Sarah’s left a lamp on in the living room for him.  Intent on a shower before he heads off to bed, he almost misses the quiet, one-sided conversation in the office. “I know you’re retired now, but I wouldn’t ask . . . Okay, thanks.”

Greg pauses. After a moment he moves through the living room.

“I really am worried, Prof. He should never have gone back, but he—I . . . Yes, I know. Someone else pointed that out to me. I agree with both of you, but that don’t feed my bulldog at the moment.”

He stands outside the office door now. Sarah sits at her desk, head in hand as she tugs absently on a curl. She glances in Greg’s direction, sees him there, and waves him in. As he enters she speaks again. “Okay. I’ll discuss it with him and let you know. I really appreciate this. Thanks for taking my call, Prof. I apologize for waking you up.” She smiles just a little. “I know. I’ll be in touch. Goodnight.” She hangs up and sits back, looking tired. “Have an enjoyable stargazing session?”

“Prof . . . ” Greg watches her closely.

“Can we talk about this in the morning?” She rubs her eyes. “I promise you I’m not avoiding the question. It’s just—just been a very long day.”

“You’re worried about Gene. Something’s definitely wrong,” he says, and feels the contentment of the last few hours drain away.

“Yes,” she agrees. “One of my teachers, a mentor . . . I think he can help.” She gets up, just a little unsteady on her feet, and he realizes she’s exhausted. “See you in the morning.”

Later, as he lies in bed halfway between recollection and sleep, a thought comes into his head, clear and quiet: _you’re going to need an escape hatch so Sarah and Gene can work things out by themselves now and then._

He can't push it away because he knows it’s the truth. They won’t welcome his intrusion into a private matter, and he will need time off from the strained atmosphere, a situation with which he’s all too familiar. But where can he go?

 _As long as you’re fixing up the barn, why not put a bed out there?_ that quiet inner voice suggests. _You’d be close but not too close. Win-win, everyone’s accommodated._

It’s worth consideration. He slides into sleep as he wonders how to run a water line that won’t freeze in winter and whether or not he should get a cube fridge for beer and lunch meat. _Definitely a pillowtop mattress, Roz would like that. Me too_ is his last coherent thought.


End file.
